


Master of Reality

by PeppermintWind



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, BAMF!Cas, Blow Jobs, Bottoming from the Top, Cas is a little bit endverse, Drugs, First Time, Homelessness, M/M, Oral Sex, Prostitution, UST, dubious consent (not Dean/Cas), fluffy blanket with wings, foosball is serious business
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-29
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-11-27 11:11:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 88,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/661313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeppermintWind/pseuds/PeppermintWind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So, do you feel more in solidarity now that we’re making noodles together?”</p><p>In which Dean (whose father disappeared a few months ago, who sometimes takes on gangs for local charities, who would do anything to take care of his little brother without telling him what 'anything' entails) hangs out at the Roadhouse Homeless Youth Day Center and Castiel (high school senior with an edible-only weed philosophy, after-school fist-fighting veteran, owner of a fuzzy blue blanket with angel wings) takes an Urban Plunge. </p><p>And then everything gets complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Disposable Heroes

**Author's Note:**

> I was not going to start another fic. And as I was telling myself that I was not going to write another fic, I found a brochure for this day center in Seattle on my floor. I don't know where it came from, since I haven't been to Seattle in years, but... well, who am I to argue with divine intervention?

There’s no point in hustling when you’re not betting anything, and especially when it’s freaking _foosball_ , but Dean doesn’t care much. It’s still funny to watch Gordon’s growing frustration as his lead vanishes, an easy win turned to a desperate struggle for manhood. 

“Yippie-ki-yay." Dean sinks the ball with one final twirl of his plastic soccer players. “Motherfucker.” 

“This game is shit,” Gordon says. “My entire back row is missing its feet.” 

“Dean’s entire front row is missing feet,” Victor says, ever-helpful. “And the two in the middle.” He's hardly looking at the table as he says it: sprawled across the couch, in a contortion that the human body was probably not made for, Victor is either the picture of ease or the picture of yoga gone wrong. It's hard to tell which. 

“Life’s a bitch.” Dean grins. “Pay up.” 

Gordon throws some pocket lint at him. And, because Dean just has to needle him— “Aw, c’mon. You don’t at least got any bud or something?” 

Apparently that’s the magic word, because Bobby’s gruff voice is now aimed at them, clear across the Roadhouse’s main room. “You clouts better not have drugs on my prem’sis!” 

Dean matches his tone. “Ain't against the law!” 

“Not for you!” 

And Dean would love to keep needling him, but drugs— even freaking harmless leaves that can now be smoked _legally_ , for fuck’s sake, if only by people over twenty one— are a rather touchy subject at the Roadhouse, and he knows better than to push it. At least for now.

“C’mon, Gord. I’ll play you.” Benny steps up, but they’re interrupted by the crowd coming in through the front door. 

It’s Jo, followed by a group of kids that are deformed by large backpacks with sleeping mats sticking out the top. They’re trying to be quiet as they come in, as they survey this new world— step lightly, stick close together, don’t make eye contact.

Dean hopes that they at least appreciate the floor, because he and Tamara had spent at least ten whole minutes sweeping it. Not that anyone could tell. Stained, fake wood floors will always be stained, fake wood floors, whether or not there’s a thin layer of dirt on top. (Ellen had not accepted this reasoning, but she’d given Dean four points for doing it— and then an extra point for ‘recognizing sarcasm.’) 

Gordon curses. Twirls his plastic men in what might be considered a threatening manner. “They didn’t tell us it was a Plunge day.” 

“Yeah, man. It’s on the calendar,” Victor says, twisting around again so that he can point to it.

“…They didn’t tell me what day it was.” 

Dean grins again. Today’s pretty okay. “It’s on the newspaper thingies on the corner.” 

A hand gesture is used to illustrate Gordon’s feelings, and then he strikes a ninja post on his half of the table. “Ready, Cracker?” 

“Bring it.” 

Behind them, Dean can hear Jo giving the group the summary of the day shelter— “Close down at five, then open up again at seven for nights…” an outline of how many teenagers end up homeless and the usual stats and all the wonderful things the Roadhouse does that Dean could practically recite in his sleep at this point. She’s almost at Dean’s favorite part (about how nobody is in these circumstances by choice) and he’s about to witness the greatest upset in the history of foosball when they’re all interrupted by a loud _”JOANNA BETH!”_.

He doesn't need to look at Jo to know she's mouthing a significant number of swear words, then— “Dean! Get over here and take over!” 

A sigh. Dean turns, eyeing the Plungers. They look-- odd. Out of place. A matched set of polo shirts, matching expressions. “How come I always have to go talk to them?” he mutters. 

“It’s ‘cause you’re our local pretty white boy,” says Benny, who is even whiter. 

“Oh please. I’m blacker than _you_. Fuck, I’m blacker than _Victor_.” 

Victor laughs. Which takes a lot of intimidation out of the following, “Suck my dick.” 

"Like you can afford it.”

 _“Joanna Beth, what did you do to those sign-in sheets?”_ And there’s the lady of the hour. Dean knows that the Plungers stress her out— hell, she’s stressed enough as it is, Dean’s not an idiot— but that doesn’t mean he’s not allowed to be annoyed. 

“Dean!” 

He hurries over, expertly parcouring over their second crumbling sofa, never mind that Tamara and Isaac are sitting on it. 

“Where are we?” 

“Still gotta do kitchen loop and points system.” 

Jo takes off. He’s pretty sure that being left with these people is a sign of trust— although, hell, he’s been coming here so long that he could probably pass as a volunteer. Ellen and Bobby even seem to think that he’s _dependable_ , and he’s never worked up the nerve to correct them. Or maybe they just think he's reasonably charismatic, for a street kid, and are hoping he can charm out massive donations. It all comes down to the same thing, really. 

Anyway, he likes talking to people. Outside of here, they don’t talk back much. 

“Hi,” he says, giving his best smile to the awkward-looking high school students. “I’m Dean.” 

“A high-end prostitute?” asks a smirking boy with a bad haircut and a face like a weasel. 

Dean just winks, and makes a clicking sound with his tongue. 

“Gabe!” The adult of their group is using the man-version of Ellen’s voice. Dean tries not to be amused. He also tries not to be amused by the man’s face, which seems too large for his tightly buttoned shirt. Also, he looks like the guy from that Ghotsbusters sequel. 

“Anyway. Um, yeah. So this is the Roadhouse.” They’ve probably already gotten this bit, but, whatever. “It’s run by Bobby and Ellen— Jo’s mom—” he stops and frowns as one boy doesn’t even try and hide the fact that he’s checking out Jo’s retreating figure. He’s pretty sure he’s not allowed to deck a Plunger. “Don’t even think about it. She could _mess you up._ ” 

Wandering-Eyes grins and offers a hand. Dean wonders if he’ll catch Douchebag if he shakes it, because he’s nothing if not quick to judge. “I’m Uriel. I _like_ you. And this is—” he gestures to the group behind him. “Balthazar, Gabe, Rachel, Hester and Castiel.” 

Dean tries really, really hard not to laugh. Five bucks, religious school. 

“And I’m Mr. Zachariah,” says their Adult. “We’re from Garrison High.” 

Ha. Religious school. _Ten points to Gryffindor._

“Garrison?” Dean waves them all down the hallway, past the lockers and writing-group flyers. “No way. My parents met there.” 

Cue the awkward silence, and faces of polite interest. And of course they don’t believe him, except— “They did. First year they went co-ed. John Winchester and Mary Campbell.” 

Mr. Zachariah’s eyes spark in recognition, and then his face twists into something that Dean doesn't want to interpret. Probably something like ‘what the hell is the kid of two Garrison grads doing in a homeless youth day center?’ And Dean isn’t going to get into that, so he just smiles and continues showing them around. “These are the showers, I hope I don’t have to explain that to you, hi Garth, get your— stuff out of the sink, that’s disgusting— this is the dining room. But they fold the tables back at night, and Ellen and Bobby put the mattresses down.” Then, the kitchen, where they’ll soon be making lunch, (because _service_ ,) the upstairs with the these-are-the-offices-and-conference-rooms-where-they-ask-people-for-money-or-when-we-need-to-Talk-About-Our-Feelings, and then back to the main room.

He’s pretty sure that that tour was supposed to take longer, and he knows the ins and outs of the Roadhouse like the back of his hand and could probably drag it out, but he’s hungry. So sue him. Also, he’s getting massively unfriendly vibes from Mr. Zachariah. Even his name reeks of dickishness. 

Benny and Gordon are still going at it, adding increasingly creative insults to the normal noisy hum. 

Jo is playing commentator, the traitor. 

Dean sighs and turns his back on them. “Okay so then there’s the chore chart. We get points for doing stuff like, um, cleaning up, passing drugs tests, doing the dishes, you know, stuff like that. Then there’s different things you can buy with them— choose the movie for movie day, that type of thing. People always go for that one. M’little brother Sammy loves it. Although his taste is enough to get him admitted to Anthony’s Shelter for GLBT—” 

“Winchester!” And then Ellen’s beside him in a flash, despite being too busy to lead this tour herself. Dean’s pretty sure the walls here have ears.

“C’mon, Ellen, I was only kidding.” He didn’t mean to violate the sanctity of the Safe Space. He couldn't possibly have forgotten about the Safe Space, what with all the signs. 

She scowls. “You know the rules— hell, you’ve copied over the poster enough time. Now, how about you go help these nice volunteer make lunch out of the goodness of your heart—and don’t think I can’t see that one-liner about to pop out. I ain’t listening to your sass, kiddo.” 

Dean huffs a laugh, only to hear—

“Scratch that, Winchester. Ellen is _so_ blacker than you.” 

He flips Victor off. Then, to Ellen, “Wait, he can make racist jokes but I can’t make gay—” 

Her mouth twitches, like it does when she’s trying not to smile. “I know you, Dean. You’re allowed to offer.” 

Dean laughs again, then turns to the slightly alarmed looking tour group. “C’mon. It’s pasta day.” 

II.

He ends up balanced on a stool, stirring a large vat of tubular noodles with the dark haired kid whose name he can’t actually remember. 

“So,” he says, after the silence has gotten slightly awkward. Dean doesn’t like silence. He doesn’t like sob moments, either, but laughing and joking goes over just fine. “What’s your favorite movie?” 

The kid looks up, surprised. “Um…” he chews his lip. “I don’t know. I saw _Skyfall_ a few weeks ago.” 

“Ugh, lucky.” Dean sighs. “I don’t think that Bobby’s got anything from this millennium.” 

Pause. Water hissing, bubbles racing to the top. “Can’t you— do you, um, hang out anywhere else?” 

Shrug. “Here, hold this end.” 

They do a great acrobatic feet involving taking a giant-ass pot of pasta and boiling water and managing to strain said boiling water out into the sink. Any second, Dean’s sure, he’s going to be covered in third degree burns. 

“I mostly chill here,” he says when they straighten it back up and begin to refill it. Behind them, there’s a crash, and then a curse, and then a _Dammit, Gabe._ Dean doesn’t look. If he doesn’t see it, it’s not his responsibility. “Sammy goes to school pretty nearby, so it seems like as good a place to meet him as any. Or bring him, when I go pick him up. And I like Ellen’n Bobby’n Jo’n everyone.” At this point, Dean knows most of the people that come in. Can joke with them, play foosball and ping-pong, sometimes hit them up for favors. Or, on bad days, weed or alcohol. Or whatever they have. Dean’s an equal-opportunity mind-addeler.

Maybe he’s just hiding here. 

“Sammy’s— your brother, right?” 

_Do not say, ‘he goes to_ school?’

“Yeah.” They pour in another bag of pasta, and Gabe comes and takes the strained stuff away to get drowned in sauce. Also, this conversation is veering into the personal category, and he searches for the nearest exit. “So, who’s your favorite Bond?” 

“Castiel! Do I need one bag of sauce or two?” 

The kid next to Dean— _Castiel_ , yeah, that’s a weird name— turns and shrugs. Gabe looks at Dean, who is just as helpful, and then takes his question elsewhere. 

“I liked Craig,” Castiel admits. “I thought he was better than Moore.” 

Dean lets his mouth fall open in shock. “And here I thought we could be friends.” 

He gets an eyebrow in response, and man, Castiel doesn’t move his face much but he manages to get his message across. “We can’t, actually. It’s one of the rules.” 

Everything seems to have gone silent in that moment, despite the voices of the plungers around them and the industrial-strength dishwasher increasing the humidity of the room by at least three hundred percent. “They give you rules when you come in?” 

“Oh, yeah.” Castiel turns the heat down a little before climbing back onto his own stool, bringing them back to eye level.

“Like?” 

“Don’t ask you how you got to be here, or ask any potential upsetting-and-or-triggering questions, don’t accept anything you offer us, don’t offer you anything, don’t promise to come back, whatever. Stay above your bad influences.” He recites this list with the air of one who has heard it far more times than he thinks is necessary, and Dean lets out a slow whistle. 

“Man, and I felt oppressed by not being able to smoke pot and question my brother’s sexuality.” 

Apparently as well as Eyebrow, Castiel can smirk. “What did Ellen mean, you offering?” 

Another shrug. Truth is, he likes chances to work in the kitchen— he can’t volunteer for it, because that’d be too— too _something_ , but if he’s _told_ to, well, then they can only laugh at him for getting in trouble. And he doesn’t actually like cooking, but he likes being able to help— because he knows how much he owes Ellen, but there’s no way he can admit that to her, and he can’t think of any other way to pay them back. 

It’d be nice, though, if the volunteers would actually donate instead of just cooking. They’d been spoiled, really, those few weeks after Ronnie died— nerdy, homeless teenager found dead. And then people started to Never Again, to ask How This Could Happen, how they could protect their children. Money rolled in. And then, just as quickly as it started, it stopped, because the media moved on. 

“Just wanted to bump elbows with you Plungers.” He goes for a smile, but then gives up. “So, you having fun roughin’ it?” 

Castiel sighs a little. His hair is sticking up more and more from the steam— it’s actually pretty funny, but Dean hasn’t decided if he’s going to point it out yet. “It’s supposed to be an eye-opening experience. Solidarity and all that. My school is big on solidarity. We wore green and white for Sandy Hook and everything.” There’s a muted sort of disdain in his voice. 

“That was all them kids got shot, right?” 

“Yeah.” 

They’re quiet for a second. “So, do you feel more in solidarity now that we’re making noodles together?” It takes a moment to realize how much that sounds like a euphemism. 

And Castiel might have noticed, because he does that eyebrow thing again. “We were at St. Michael’s Men’s Dinner last night and we’re going to sleep in the gymnasium at Mount Sinai. Went to a Real Change orientation and then got thrown out of Starbucks because we didn’t buy anything. So it seems like a lot of effort if we’re not even supposed’ta talk to you.” 

Not that that’s entirely a bad thing. “Prob’ly just worried about you pissing people off. I mean, I’m pretty hard to offend. But you go askin’ Gordon about his life story, and he’ll rip’ya a new one.” 

“Duly noted.” 

They share half a smile. 

“Anyway,” Castiel continues. “ _Avengers_ was also really good.” 

“ _Avengers_ was awesome.” Dean nods. It's another movie he’d seen here— Ellen had gotten it from Redbox, and yeah, he probably does need to go other places more. But he feels like Castiel wouldn’t appreciate it as much if he talked about the slightly sketchier places he hangs out. “Scarlett, man. _Hot._ ” 

“Eh.” 

“Aw c’mon, Cas. She’s like—” Dean makes a gesture that’s supposed to illustrate how attractive Scarlet Johanssen is, but all he comes out with is “You’re killin’ me, Smalls!” 

“If that’s from a movie, I haven’t seen it,” Castiel tells him, and then, when Dean groans— “What? There’s no time. La Vie Boheme being dead, and all.” 

Dean’s pretty sure that’s a reference, and for some reason the connection in his head is to Madonna. “What—”

“ _Rent._ ” 

That one he hasn’t seen, although he’s pretty sure Madonna wasn’t in it. “That was the musical with the trann— with that cross-dresser, right?” 

He gets a roll of ridiculously blue eyes for his effort. “There was a little more to it than that. There were also lesbians. And AIDS.” Pause. “Then again, perhaps Anna’s description wasn’t entirely accurate.” 

“Who’s Anna? This really doesn’t sound like something that Garrison kids would be allowed to watch.” Dean realizes that he’s forgotten to stir. But nobody should notice that he was too busy talking, because he only has to push with the spoon a little bit to get the noodles off the bottom. He fishes one out to try it. “You think this is done?” He tires to hand one to Castiel, but somehow ends up splattering them both with hot water. “ _Fuck_. Sorry.” 

“It’s okay.” Castiel frowns down at his damp polo, as though such a thing has never happened to it. Like he doesn’t live in a city known for rain. “Anna’s my sister. She was obsessed with _Rent_ for awhile— she thought it would annoy our parents.” 

“Did it?” 

“They didn’t notice. Her moving rendition of that song about the cow jumping over the moon did not win her any points in the hallways, though; Mr. Zachariah had to have a conference with her.” 

“Jesus.” Dean realizes that blasphemy might not be the best thing around a kid who may or may not be a devotee. Does that even qualify as blasphemy? “Sorry. Um, that’s kind of hilarious. Zach doesn’t look like he goes for a sense of humor.” 

They manage to strain the second batch without killing themselves just as Jo comes in. For someone who’s supposed to coordinate volunteers, she seems to be leaving them to their own devices quite a bit. “Winchester,” she says loudly. “Make me a sammich.” Dean flips her off, and she starts corralling some of the Garrison kids towards the counter. “Mom says your servitude is up.” 

“Oh, really?” Dean waves his hands in her general direction. “Awesome. So who won the great foosball match of 2013? You seemed to know an awful lot about it.” 

“Please. Just letting you schmooze with these lovely folk. Also, Benny. But Gordon has vowed revenge.” 

“Well, tell Benny to watch his back.” He checks the clock, and it’s still two hours until Sammy should be there, so he has time to make an ass of himself. Well, he does until Jo kicks him out of the kitchen, and “you Harvelles are never happy, are you.” 

“So, you get your ticket out of the life?” Gordon knocks a ping-pong ball at his head, but Dean swats it back. “Get one of them to adopt you?” 

“They were pretty cool,” he says honestly. At least Gabe has a sense of humor. And Castiel’s nice. “Anyway. It’s pasta.” 

You can’t go wrong with pasta. That’s just an accepted fact. Even if some of it is potentially unstirred. 

Dean maybe should feel bad, seeing all those Garrison kids. He could have been one of them, and for a second he tries to imagine it. He might have been friends with Castiel in school, maybe joked around with Gabe and known the others’ names. He’d make fun of Sammy looking all dorky in their uniform sweatshirt and— well. It’s a life that Dean didn’t get, and he doesn’t think about it too hard. His learning has been spotty at best, but his dad taught him most of what’s important and he figured out the rest himself. Where to go if all the shelters are full, how to keep teachers from finding out that Sammy doesn’t have parents or an address, where to stand and how to look at people when he is desperate for cash, how to smile like nothing’s wrong.

He beams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Disposable Heroes](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k16joH4lzWw)


	2. End of the Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Marbles for beta-ing and being an endless source of Seattle knowledge.

I.

The thing is, Castiel definitely remembers packing his sleeping bag. He knows because he had to dig into the back of the linen closet to get it, and had found all those other ridiculous blankets on the way. And then he’d had to get it in the stuff sack, and Gabe had laughed at him. 

So there’s no possible way that it turned into that blanket with the giant wings that he'd left in the pile with the aforementioned ridiculous blankets. (He’d forgotten about its existence, actually— his dad had brought it home from one of his trips, giggling because “when you put it on top of you it looks like you have angel wings, and you’re named after an angel!”) 

It is, scientifically, impossible for a sleeping bag to morph en backpack. 

And when one has eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Cas picks up the fuzzy blue thing and marches across the gym, shaking it in Gabe’s face. “What the hell is this?” 

Gabe stares at it for a moment, perplexed. “It’s a fuzzy blue blanket with a pair of wings on it,” he says slowly. 

“And what’s it doing in my backpack?” 

He gets a well-practiced look of blank innocence, but he’s known Gabe too long. And Gabe can’t keep from bragging. Which is why, a second later, he’s fallen over and is laughing his ass off. “Four our little angel!” he crows. “Aw, c’mon, Cassie. You even pointed it out to me. I couldn’t _not_.” 

Uriel guffaws as well, but at least Uriel is someone that Castiel can beat up, and the younger boy shuts his mouth when he’s on the receiving end of Castiel’s glare. 

He’s about to engage in a physical altercation, take his friend’s sleeping bag and force the one named after the _archangel Gabriel_ to take the freaking angel wings, but then Mr. Zachariah is approaching them with an “Everything okay?” and then, “That’s quite a nice blanket, Castiel. If everyone can bring their blankets and sleeping bags up to the chapel, it’s time for our Reflection.” 

When they’re up there, Cas tries to wrap it around himself so that the wings aren’t obvious. He’d go without, but he’d choose temporary embarrassment over freezing solid any day, and this place is colder than a doctor's office. 

“That’s even cuter,” Balthazar says. “Like you’re wrapped in your wings trying to keep warm.”

“I can beat you up, too,” Castiel says seriously. 

He makes a mental note to prove that once they get out of here. 

But then they’re all lighting candles and “Our father who art in heaven”ing. After Hailing Mary, Ms. Lilith gives a summary of what her half of the group did (eliminating the part where Crowley and Meg almost came to blows over who was setting up the shoes in the women’s overnight shelter, but Gabe had filled Cas in on that earlier) and “Let’s all share our favorite part of the day.”

Cas sighs, glancing down at his paper. What have you learned, what new insights have you gained, what was surprising? He doesn’t want to give detailed answers to these— first of all, because they’re all basically the same question, and second, because everything he has to say sounds idiotic. 

He just stares at the candles and waits for writing time to be up.

“That girl, Jo, was pretty cool,” Hester says, after the middle candle is a wick in a puddle of wax. “At the place where we were. The Roadhouse. I mean, she’s our age, but she practically works there— which makes all of our service seem kind of pathetic. It really inspired me to do more.” 

And the thing is, coming from anyone else, it would have been bullshit; but Cas is pretty sure that Hester is serious. It’s what Mr. Z wants to hear, anyway. 

“Castiel? What was your favorite part?” ‘

He snaps back to attention. Today. Roadhouse, Men’s Gospel dinner, being tired. “Um, I liked… Dean was nice,” he manages. 

Zachariah nods encouragingly. “So do you want to tell the other group about Dean?” 

Not really. Cas glances over at Ms. Lilith. “Um, he’s— a regular at the place where we went. The Roadhouse.” 

“He and Cas were flirting the entire time,” Balthazar says. “We were slaving away and they’re off in the corner yacking.” 

“Hey,” Castiel says, again making an _I can beat you up_ face. Three in half an hour is kind of impressive. “We made your freaking pasta.” 

“Yeah, but I was afraid that if I ate it, I’d catch a case of hom—” 

“Enough,” Mr. Zachariah snaps. “That’s not appropriate, Balthazar. Apologize.” 

Balth pulls a face. “Sorry, Cassie dear.” 

Zachariah turns his stare back to Castiel. “So what did you and Dean talk about?” he asks. “Did anything surprise you?” 

His family, Cas’s school, why they aren’t allowed to be friends.

“Um… Avengers.”

II.

Castiel drops his backpack off in the living room. He hears it tip over, but he doesn’t look, because he’s already halfway to the kitchen. 

“Hey, Anna. When’d you get in?” 

She grins. “Last night. I thought I might stay on campus for a bit, but then Zeke was coming this way anyway, so I hitched a ride. Dad said you were off being homeless?” 

He nods. Her presence has put him in a bad mood, but he isn’t sure why. He loves his sister. More so when she’s not at home, of course, but he’s still glad to see her. Maybe it’s that Dad isn’t home. Or whatever. 

“How was that?” 

He ignores her for a few seconds, because conversation ranks below refrigerator raiding on his priority list. Below finding a burger that is, by his estimate, two days old—but who is he to be picky. It’ll taste fine once it’s microwaved. “It was alright. Met cool people, got to spend thirty hours straight with Uriel and Balth and Gabe. Party. You got any brownies?” 

Anna blinks at him for a few seconds. The light behind her head makes her hair look bright, and Castiel is a little amused at how much it resembles one of those halos they look at in religion class. “With weed or without weed?” 

“No, Anna. I want them for your _cooking skills_. With weed.” Their new microwave door doesn’t slam in quite a satisfying a way as their old one, but everyone has crosses to bear. 

Christ. He feels like he needs to hit something. He could go and fight with Gabe, probably—Gabe calls them ‘duels’, and they usually end up with Castiel in a headlock, but Balthazar and Uriel are too easy to beat. And he’s not sure where all the anger is coming from, but he’s also not big on psychoanalyzing himself. 

“Well, look at that. Hit your rebellious phase, Castie?” Anna asks. 

He scowls. “You got any or not?” 

“What do you have for me?” 

_Beep. Beep._ And burgers really are delicious. He eats half of it in two bites. 

“Come on.” Chew, chew, swallow. “I haven’t stolen anything from your bedroom since you’ve been gone.” 

“Untrue.” Anna pushes herself up onto the counter. Not for the first time, Castiel wishes that their kitchen was larger, because he only has about two feet of breathing room between his sister and the fridge. “Some of my condoms were missing.” 

Yeah, well. “Those were in your _bathroom._ ” 

“Yeah?” She wiggles her eyebrows. “What’d you use them for?” 

What does she count her condoms for? “None of your business.” 

“I’m your sister!” 

“Exactly. It’s none of your business.” He takes another bite of burger. 

“I’ll give you half of what I have if you tell me,” she says, and now they’re getting somewhere. Except, not. 

“You should share because sharing is caring,” Castiel says. Then he squeezes out of the kitchen triangle and sits down at the table. It’s too small for four people, really, but that’s okay because all four of them are never there at the same time. “Anyway, there’s nothing to tell.” 

If their mom was there, she'd have to say that Anna's face might get stuck that way, but Amelia isn't there and Anna speaks anyway. “Please tell me that you weren’t just practicing putting them on.” 

“I was not just practicing putting them on.” 

“Good.” She spins around so that she can look at him. Rests her head on her chin and raises her eyebrows, this time without the wiggle, like she’s some creepy therapist from a bad movie. “So who was she?”

“ _Nobody._ Really, Anna. They weren’t anyone you know.” Although he isn’t entirely sure of that. What he’s most definitely not going to tell his sister—or anyone else—is that he’d never caught the guy’s name. It’s not Castiel’s fault that Gabe constantly takes advantage of their friendship by using his house to throw parties—it’s not Castiel’s fault that nobody is ever home to yell at him, and it’s most _definitely_ not his fault that he had been entirely on board with fucking a nameless guy in his religious parents’ house. Because why the hell not. 

But she isn’t giving up. “ _They?_ Castiel, have you been hosting orgies in our house?” 

He gives her the finger. “Fine. I’ll go get my weed from Crowley. God knows what he’s spiked it with, so if I OD on something weird, you’ll have to tell mom and dad.” 

And then he’s storming upstairs, and flopping on his bed, and he needs to figure out why he’s so pissed off before he does something he’ll really regret. Like get weed from Crowley. Hell, he could probably get something stronger, but he isn’t quite ready to go there yet. 

He needs to breathe. Hides his face in his pillow. Inhale, exhale, nothing matters, nothing matters, nothing matters. 

III.

Come to my race, Gabe said. 

It’ll be fun, Gabe said. 

I do better with people cheering me on, Gabe said. 

Apparently, his persuasive powers only work on Castiel, because he’s alone in the bleachers. Not alone as in there’s nobody else there— a few students from Garrison and a few from whatever schools they’re competing against are scattered in clumps— but without Balthazar and Uriel, the stands might as well be empty. 

Well, except for the blonde girl leaning on the railing. 

He isn’t sure what the protocol is when you see your former volunteer coordinator at a cross country match, but he better think fast, because she’s already seen him and waved. And since he’s sitting alone, and she’s standing alone, it’d be weird not to cross those twenty feet to say hello to her. 

“Hello,” Castiel says. 

“Hey, you’re one of the Angel Plu— you’re one of the Urban Plunge students, right?” 

“Yeah,” he says. “Jo, right?” 

“Yeah. You’re Dean’s friend.” 

That’s not quite how he’d put it. ‘Friend’ is a very specific term. Cas frowns. “We talked,” he says. “I’m not sure that—”

Jo shrugs. The starting gun goes off. Neither of them look. “As much of Dean’s friend as anyone else, I guess. You don’t run cross country?” 

“No. You don’t either?” 

“Nah.” Out of her pocket comes— is that a switchblade? And she starts carving her initials into the railing in front of them. The hoard of runners go by, but none of them are Gabriel. “Don’t have time for school sports around the Roadhouse. Volunteers are unpredictable. I gotta be able to cover.” 

He nods like he understands, even though he doesn’t. He’s never had anything but free time. Not sure why he hasn’t put that towards a sport or something, really. He likes running, but the idea of doing it with a group of other teenagers doesn’t seem very appealing. He has no idea what Gabe gets out of this.

“My mom wanted me to go,” she says, anticipating the question. “Thought it’d be good for me to have friends with houses.” 

“You don’t?” 

She twirls the knife around her finger, and that’s enough of an answer. “Not time,” she says again. “I mean, there’s people that I’m friendly with, but I can’t, like… let them into _my_ life, their parents’d freak. Anyway, the Roadhouse people— some of them are my friends, much as we can be. So I’m happy.” She stops. “I don’t know why I said all that.” 

Cas can’t imagine going through the school day without Gabe and Balthazar. Hanging out by himself on weekends, or having a few casual acquaintances. It’s something so very foreign to him, because he’s had the same friends all his life, all around, oftentimes more than they’re welcome. “Seems lonely.” 

“Nah.” Jo watches dispassionately as someone from her school crosses the finish line first. “What Dean had Gordon have going, _that’s_ lonely.” She adds a flourish to the _H._ “You got any weed?” 

He stares, and she cringes away from his expression. “Sorry. That’s the only way I can get through sporting events. I wasn’t trying to, like…” 

Cas just shakes his head. “No. I finished off my sister’s edibles last night. I don’t smoke.” 

“Aw, c’mon. You eat but you don’t smoke?” 

“It’s bad for your lungs.” 

Jo raises her eyebrow, then glances up and down his body. “Makes sense. You have runner thighs.” Pause. “Not that I was checking you out.”

“Don’t worry, you’re not my type.” 

“You sure you don’t do this stuff?” she indicates the race with her thumb. 

“No.” This is probably the longest conversation Castiel has ever had with someone outside his close friend group, although if he’s socially deficient, Jo doesn’t show it. Then again, she’s probably used to dealing with weirdos. “I run when I’m stressed.” 

But she’s eyeing him now, speculative, so he’s pretty sure that wasn’t a sympathy thing. “How fast you can go?” 

He considers. “Faster than you.” 

“Wanna bet?” 

They grin at each other.

IV.

Castiel is forced to eat his words, and a bit of mud. Such is the fate of all runners in Seattle Februaries. 

“Don’t worry.” Jo gives him a hand up. “You’re still faster than most people, I’m pretty sure.” 

Castiel wipes mud off his face in an attempt to look dignified. “Is this some kind of Atalanta thing?” he asks. “Am I being tested?” 

“Thought I wasn’t your type.” 

“I’m gay.” The words fall out of his mouth so easily, and he stops, face frozen. He’s never, ever said that fear aloud to anyone, not sure why he did, and she’s just sort of shrugging. 

“I figured.” 

“You— what?” And there’s the terror and oh God does everyone know, because he thinks Gabe suspects what he got up to at that party, but that might be paranoia and Gabe was so drunk who knows what he remembers, and it’s not like— like he’d say anything, would he care, would Gabe care? What if everyone can see it—

“Stop freaking out,” she says, after a couple moments of him freaking out. “Sorry. I— is this a big deal? For you?” 

By unspoken agreement, they move to the trees. It’ sunny, which makes the mud completely unfair. Castiel considers cleaning himself off with his jacket, but that’d be a waste. He takes a paper towel from Jo instead and goes to work on his socks. “I guess,” he manages. “My family is pretty religious. My dad— don’t think it matters much, though. Parents are always on book tours. Mom's his publicist.” When she's in mental shape to do that, anyway. 

She tilts her head. “Your dad writes books?” 

“Yeah. Penname’s Carver Edlund. Apparently people actually read that stuff.” 

“I’ve never heard of him,” Jo says. “But I don’t read much.” And out comes the switchblade again as she starts scraping mud off the sole of her shoe. “Man, we need some turf tracks around here. So you afraid of your cronies finding out or something?”

“They’re not my cronies,” Castiel says. “I mean, we’ve been friends since kindergarten, I guess. Because our classes were pretty small.” 

“Balthazar and Uriel seemed to defer to you.”

And she sure remembers a lot for someone who apparently wasn’t entirely sure if he was a former Plunger or not. 

“Yeah, they do. That’s because I can beat them up.” 

Her stare stays on him for a moment, before she shrugs and continues scraping her shoe. “And here I thought all that schoolyard fighting fight club shit was just guys pretending to be macho.” 

Shrug. “Probably is, for most people. We just— it’s stressful at school. I don’t know. Just to relieve the tension, I guess, and then in fourth grade we basically ranked ourselves. I’m faster than Uri and Balth, and Gabe can whup us all. But it doesn’t matter most of the time. I mean, Gabe always runs off when people are arguing, and, I don’t know.” 

“Sounds kind of sucky.” 

“They’re good friends.” 

They sit in silence for a while. Jo finishes her shoe and offers Cas the knife, but his respect for his footwear is not that great.

“Shoulda cooled down,” she says finally, scratching away at her leg. “We’re idiots.” 

“Yeah.” 

Castiel doesn’t much care. 

V.

“Castiel,” Uriel says, “Has been hanging out with one Jo Harvelle.” 

Gabe looks appropriately shocked. “Cas, you slut.” 

Cas scowls. “I wasn’t the one sending her creeper glances at the Roadhouse. Anyway. It’s not like that.” 

Gabe stares. “Why? Have you _seen_ that ass?” 

Yes, actually. 

“Honestly. You come to _my_ championship race, and _you’re_ the one that gets a girlfriend.” 

“She’s not my girlfriend,” he says, more for the sake of clearing that up than anything else. He doesn’t want Jo to think he’s using her as a closet door, although now that he thinks about it that might be a good option. Jo _is_ pretty— by the basic rules of popularity, he isn’t sure why she doesn’t have more friends— and it’s not like anyone would think he was gay if—

God, did he even just think that? 

It’s never been a thing before. Before the words just popped out of his mouth. And he wants to take them back in, go back to his state of just _being_. Yes, the only person he’d ever had sex with happened to have a penis. That didn’t make him anything else, not until last week. 

_Gay._

_Queer._

_Homosexual._

_Faggot._

_Fairy._

Nope. Not him. So he just shrugs and congratulates Gabe on being able to “run the fastest away from a gunshot.” 

“We should party,” Gabe says. 

Fuck. 

Yeah, Castiel knows where this is going. 

Then again, maybe getting drunk is something that would do him some good. 

VI.

It’s not something that would do him any good. He can’t breathe in his freaking house, especially after Anna gets on board and it turns into a high school reunion. 

He calls Jo. 

“I’m not sure how many times we’re supposed to hang out before we’re considered friends or at what point I get to go to your house,” he blurts, the second she picks up. He has to shout over the noise. “But I’m desperate, I don’t have anywhere to—” 

She laughs. “It’s fine, Cas. I don’t think the rules are that strict on friends. Probably.” Pause. “You can come down here if you want. Long as you promise to help set up beds.” 

“Not a problem.” 

He’s out of the house in two seconds flat, sounds of the party echoing behind him. It’s a good thing that he has his phone, though, because locating the Roadhouse is far more difficult a feat than it had been on the bus. It’s two wrong turns before he’s pulling in, and it’s only seven thirty. How the hell did anyone manage to sneak past their parents this early? Maybe they all have to sneak out all the time, and they’re all ninjas. But at least when his parents are gone he has access to their car, much good may its rusted self do him. He has to park about a block away. And just to make his parents happy (even though they don’t and won’t know,) he puts on The Club. 

Because that car is totally worth stealing. 

“Oh, Castiel, good,” is the first thing Ellen says when he comes in. (Through the back door, Jo had said— there are already kids lined up at the front. He didn’t see Dean, though.) He wonders for a second if she’d actually remembered his name, but then figured that Jo had reminded her. 

And then he doesn’t have time to wonder anything, because apparently Bobby has pulled a hamstring, or torn his ACL, or something— either way, he’s in a wheelchair (“Only for a little while, I ain’t geriatric yet!”) and giving drill-Sergeant-esque commands. 

“Bobby,” Ellen says, after they slide one rolling bed two inches to the left just to make his OCD happy. “We’ve been setting up these beds for years.” 

“Don’t worry, Mom.” Jo kicks the latch out of another one, and it clangs open with a noise loud enough that Castiel flinches. “He just wants to feel useful.”

Bobby threatens her, she makes fun of him, and Castiel doesn’t have much time to ponder this particular mother-daughter-external-paternal-figure relationship because they’re busy transforming the dining room. 

Also, he thinks that Zachariah was lying to them— those beds don’t look comfy, but they’re certainly better than the half-inch pads that they got in the gym. 

On his way to fetch more blankets, Castiel again checks the line out front. He’s pretty sure he recognizes Gordon and Benny, and that girl that had been on the sofa. He wonders if it’s the same people every night, if it’s a race, and he makes a mental note to ask Jo about it later. He spends the next while handing off blankets and a trying not to get in the way as few more things are shoved around, and then there are eighteen beds waiting to be slept in. 

And, as Ellen grumbles, a washing machine standing empty waiting for eighteen blankets and sheets. 

Jo glances at the window and does a quick head count. Apparently a couple of them notice her doing so, and apparently she knows them, because she has no trouble flipping them off and/or waving as it suits her. “Seventeen,” she says, as Bobby rolls towards the door. “That’s good.” 

“Do you want me to go?” Castiel asks. Checks his watch. Forty five minutes gone, anyway. That's more than he'd hoped for.

She shrugs. “It’s about to get crazy in here,” she says. “I could probably give you a blow-by-blow narration of what’s about to go down.” 

“Um.” 

“I didn’t mean that quite the way it sounded.”

“Oh, damn.” He watches as Ellen opens the doors and demands that everyone come in in a single file, orderly line. “I was really hoping to score an orgy.” 

She swats him, he waits a couple minutes to make sure that Dean isn't there, even though it shouldn't matter, and then he makes his escape out the back door. If Benny recognizes him, he doesn’t show it, but Castiel is alright with that. Alright with going out and around to the front and—

Oh. 

“I’m sorry,” Ellen is saying, to two boys standing there, just beyond the doorframe. “We got one bed, them’s the rules.” 

“Don’t I know it.” And yeah, the voice confirmed it, but he’d already recognized him from the back of his head. 

“Dean, I’m sorry—”

“Shut up, Sammy. Go ahead, I’ll be by in the morning.” 

Ellen is still staring at him. “Dean— I really am sorry—”

“It’s fine.” Dean shrugs. “Don’t hesitate to beat him up for me, and for God’s sake, Sammy, lock up your stuff, and take the farthest bed from Bela. I don’t want to have to buy you a new backpack.” He doesn’t wait for a response, but shoves Sam through the door. Turns away before they close it, and Cas is still standing there, even though it’s dark now and he should get going and—

Dean is walking his direction and it’d be creepy to stay silent, so he says “Hello, Dean,” and—

“Jesus Christ!” Dean jumps about two feet in the air. 

“No, it’s Castiel,.” 

“Give me a premature _heart attack_ , Jesus.” 

‘I just told you,” Cas deadpans. “It’s Castiel.” 

Dean gives him a halfhearted smack on the shoulder. “What are you doing here?”

“Helping Jo set up beds… are you, um.” He tilts his head towards the now closed front door.

“It’s fine,” Dean says. “at least now I can smoke.” He digs around in his pocket, pulls out a few papers. “You want?” 

“I don’t smoke,” Cas says, checking that there aren't any windows nearby. It's not that he doesn't want anyone to see them, it's just-- he isn't sure if he wants anyone to see them. The not-making-friends rule echoes in his memory. “I only… brownie.” 

Dean starts laughing. “Only _brownie_?”

“Shut up. Smoking is bad for your lungs.” He isn’t sure if he’s being laughed at or with, but he supposes that it doesn’t really matter. Dean claps him on the back, then in the same motion sort of tugs Castiel along with him as he starts walking. 

“You know.” Castiel bites his lip. “I’m not allowed to offer to let you stay at my house. It’s one of the Rules.” 

“Yeah, I know.” 

“But I mean, if you were to show up— there’s an open houseparty going on there right now, so it’s totally okay if you went. And then if you fell asleep, it’d be rude to wake you—” 

Dean pauses. His face is entirely in shadow. It’s a little unnerving, not to be able to see any expression. “I don’t need anything,” he says. “Thanks, though.” Another pause. “There’s a party going on at your place, and you’re ditching?” 

Castiel doesn’t want to go home. Not back to the party, not right now— the idea of rejoining the masses is exhausting. He’d much rather be here, even though it’s cold, even though he barely knows this boy who just offered him drugs. The smoke from his joint curls around his head in a halo. Like Anna's. He's surrounded by angels.

“Gabe threw it.” They’re going past a few stores now, lights and music spilling onto the sidewalk. “Anna was on board, so, whatever.” 

“Show us your Seahawks gear and get in free!” shouts the man out front, who is decked out entirely in blue and green. His hair might be dyed, too, but it’s hard to tell in the light, hard to think over the dubstep that is polluting the streets. Castiel is not too upset about the fact that he has no Seahawks gear to show. 

Dean shakes head. “Don’t let people walk all over you like that, man.” 

He’s never thought of it like that— they’re not walking all over him. It’s having Gabe owe him a favor or seven, and anyway, that’s what friends do. 

“Where do you usually go?” he asks. “When the shelters fill up.” 

He isn’t sure if he’s asking the wrong thing, because Dean stops walking for a moment. But then he starts again, keeps moving forward as they go— Cas doesn’t know where. He should probably watch for that, but he’ll be able to find his way back. If nothing else, Castiel has a fantastic sense of direction. If he didn't get there on a bus.

“I usually knock around the city,” he says. “Sometimes I find somewhere else, sometimes I just walk around until morning and then sleep at the Roadhouse during the day… tried sleeping outside a couple times, but it turns out that’s a great way to get your shit stolen.” 

Apparently Dean has been steering them towards a park, or maybe they just ended up there by accident. They both sit in the damp grass. Behind them, the lines of the playground slice up the light from the street lamps. Cas wonders if he can get high off the _smell_ of weed, because he’d be okay with that. With being high right now. Even though second-hand smoke is the spawn of Satan and all. 

“Jo said you two run,” Dean says. “Says, and I quote, ‘your effort is inspiring.’” He grins at Cas’s expression. “Haven’t beaten her yet?” 

“Joanna Beth is a freak of nature." He has to work to sound less defensive than he feels. “I can run faster than most of the people I know, so I’m okay with that.” 

They fall silent, though, as two other teenage boys walk past. Castiel doesn’t notice them until he sees how Dean stiffens, scowling at the yellow rag sticking out of the taller one’s pocket.

“Fuck,” Dean says, when they're out of earshot. “Wendigos.” 

“Eh?” It’s cold out. And Castiel knows that if anyone sees him here, he’s going to be in massive trouble, and that’s only just started to make him nervous. He pulls at the grass, feels it give so easily under his fingers. Roots not strong enough to hold it down. 

“Digos,” Dean says again. “Gang. Yellow and black. Crips. Usually stick to the central district but— well, that’s another thing I do on my nights out." 

“You don yellow and black garb and hunt Bloods,” Castiel says slowly. He’s rewarded with a laugh. 

“No, I try and keep gangs outta here. Sammy has to walk round these parts, and I don’t give a crap who’s fighting who, you know? There’s just— drive by shootings and the like, and I don’t want those here. Sometimes I bring Vic, or Gordon, or Benny or all three and we'll leave 'em messages about how they’re— unwelcome.” 

Cas should be running for home right about now. “Oh? How?” 

“Trade secrets,” Dean huffs. 

“Okay.” But of course now he’s desperately curious. Most of his gang knowledge comes from Gabe, who once tried to convince him that the Bloods were basically a mafia that would kill him if he crossed a street in the Central District wrong. (He had since been to the CD many times, and never seen any sign of gang activity, so he’d attacked Gabe and ended up in a headlock for his trouble.) “If you ever need help—” 

“Dude. No way.” Dean rolls around and onto his feet. The great view of his ass that Castiel just got was probably an accident, so he makes a point of looking at the other boy’s face. “I’m happy to indulge your rebellious phase— you’re good company. But I’m not getting you hurt.” 

Castiel stands too. “Rebellious phase?” he asks, stung. Remembering Anna's words earlier. “I’m not _weak_ , Dean.” 

Dean looks him up and down. “You’re scrawny. You’re a runner.” 

Yeah. It’s much to his distress that no matter how much Castiel lifts, he’s never going to have actual visible muscles. Still, he bends his knee a little, drops into a defensive stance almost without meaning to. At least this is a game he understands. 

“What is it with you people wanting to test my athletic prowess?” Cas asks. Then— because he doesn’t want to have to explain later— “not where people can see.” 

Dean nods. 

And then they move. 

Aside from an occasional Exchange of Ideas with Raphael, he’s only fought with Gabe, Uriel and Balthazar. It’s not a Fight Club deal, it’s just— when they’re arguing, when they’re frustrated, when they’re trying to prove something. It’s how they defer to each other. Gabe wants Pepperoni, Balth wants pineapple, but Gabe can beat Balth in a fight. Cas realizes that’s probably not how most people do things, but they’re the only friends he’s ever had, so he doesn’t much care. At least he can hold his own. And nobody has ever picked on them, even though Castiel is sort of nerdy and Balthazar and Uriel piss everybody off, because they can take anyone down. But Cas also knows the others’ styles. He knows Uriel’s weak spots. He knows that Balthazar has a habit of accidentally turning his back. He knows that Gabe always pulls tricks and he knows what to watch for. 

Dean is something new. 

He dodges the first couple fists, and gets in the first jab— an elbow to Dean’s chest. The he darts away, just manages to avoid flailing feet. But Dean is still coming, and before he quite knows what’s hit him, there’s a fist in his stomach. 

Cas grins. 

There’s no art to this. Just breathing and swinging limbs. There’s no _skill_ , no twirls— it’s just how well he knows the human body, and trusts his own. 

They’re both fast. 

They’re practically dancing around each other at first, like two awkward middle-schoolers at a tolo, spinning around but hardly touching. And then Dean gets Cas’s feet out from under him, but Cas grabs the other as he falls. Which was probably a bad move, because now Dean is pinning him, but he’s just disoriented enough that that’s easy enough to fix. Cas wraps his legs around Dean’s middle in one quick motion, flips them over, and then rolls away and gets back up, kicks at where Dean’s stomach was a moment ago. But Dean is standing now, too. 

They’re both shadows in the dark. 

“Not bad,” Dean says. 

They both know they’re holding back. Testing the limits.

Cas’s smile widens. 

Then he turns and runs for the playground. 

Dean is after him, but Cas is right— he _is_ faster than Dean. So he pulls just enough ahead, jumps into the air, and grabs onto the monkey bars before twisting and locking his legs around Dean’s neck. Then Dean’s on his back, and this time it’s Cas who has him pinned. But Dean’s not stupid, either, and then they’re half rolling, jabbing elbows, and “Neat trick,” Dean says, and there’s more respect in his voice. And Cas says “thank you,” and Dean says “you probably should have saved it for later, though,” and Cas just jumps again, grabbing the bar and swinging forward. Hitting Dean in the chest with the bottoms of his feet and following him down. 

Then there are more shoves, and he’s starting to ache, but it’s not that bad. 

No, there’s no art. There’s no Uriel sarcastically calling out style points (“Five for difficulty, seven for execution,”) and no gratuitous displays of acrobatics. Just Dean coming forward and Cas going the other way and then he manages to trip Dean up and then the next thing anyone knows Dean is on his stomach, one arm caught behind his back. 

Castiel tightens his grip on Dean’s wrist. Adjusts his legs to keep his opponent more firmly stuck down, and presses his other hand on the back of his neck. 

Dean strains against him, but he has no leverage in this position. Which is probably good, because Castiel’s entire face turns bright red as he realizes that he’s popped a freaking _boner_.

 _Not the time,_ he tells his dick. _We’re having a fistfight, not getting laid._ But the more aware of it he becomes, the more it won’t go away, and Dean’s ass is right _there_ and crap, what if he feels it what if he— Cas presses his hand down, harder. “Yield,” he says, in the loftiest voice he can manage. 

“Uncle,” Dean mutters, and Cas gets off of him. Thanks the God his parents pray to that it’s so dark and _don’t look down, Dean._ He tells himself to think of Gabe, digging earthworms out of Uriel’s lunchbox in the fourth grade. Think of the time Anna was babysitting the neighbor's kids and came home covered in shit. Lady Gaga in a tutu, a mariachi band performing Swan Lake, two squared is four, three squared is nine, four squared is sixteen, and despite what Uriel says, there is nothing less sexy than math. 

“You’re good,” Dean allows, tilting his head. It’s too dark to tell, but Cas hopes there are woodchip prints on his cheek. 

Cas shrugs. “You’re alright.” Pause. “I really hope that I remember not to change for gym tomorrow, or people will think I’m being abused.” 

“Tell them what the other guy looks like,” Dean says. He rubs his side, and winces. 

“Tall, brown hair, long eyelashes?” 

Yeah. That wasn’t the most homosexual thing that could have come out of his mouth at _all_. He considers asking if Dean has any weed left— he’s already been marching around the city at night, gotten into a fight and sighted some gang members, so he should really go for it just so he can fill out his Rebellious Teenager scorecard. 

“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with my face,” Dean says. “I have a great face.” 

And there’s nothing he can say to that, really, because Dean _does_ have a great face. But he’s also having an identity crisis, so really his judgment right now should not be trusted. Not when he’s sitting down on a wooden platform on a playground and when he’s seriously considering not going home tonight. 

He bites his tongue for a moment, and then releases it. “So, you and Victor and Gordon and Benny go and fight gangs,” he says. 

Dean shakes his head. “Not exactly. I mean, we try not to _fight_ them, if we can avoid it, because there’s only four of us. And it’s usually just—” 

“You try and keep gangs out of your space,” Cas says, a little louder. “You want other gangs out of your neighborhood. Isn’t that, like, what a gang _is_?” 

“Okay.” Dean nods. “We’re a pro-bono gang.” 

“You’re an anti-gang. You’re basically hipsters.” 

Dean should not sit there with his mouth open like that. It does things t o Cas's brain. “Take that back.” 

But then they’re laughing. 

“Oh my god, we’re Fezzik,” Dean says. “Taking out gangs for local charities—” 

“A hipster is a hipster is a hipster.” 

They both flop back onto the planks, splinters be damned. The night sky above them is orange. 

“The police are going to kick us out if they come by,” Dean says. “We’re not supposed to camp here.” 

“We’re not camping,” Cas says. “We’re resting.” He rolls onto his back. 

“Ugh. We’re both going to be purple in the morning. Still.” Dean twitches an eyebrow. “Never figured you’d be so quick.” 

“Most people don’t. That’s my advantage. The non-offer still stands, you know.” 

“Don’t worry about me. Really.” A couple more minutes of resting, then Dean sits up. He winces a little. “You don’t owe me favors, so I’m not taking them. I’ll find somewhere to hang out for the night. Might make it easier if this shit bruises, actually— battle scares are sexy.” 

Cas snorts. He’s about to ask who, exactly, finds bruises sexy and why would that aid Dean in getting a place to sleep, but his phone is ringing. 

More accurately, it’s playing _Hark! The Harold Angels Sing_. 

“What—” 

“Gabriel thought it was funny to change his personal ringtone.” He flips the phone open. “Hi, Gabe.” 

An explosion of noise comes from the other end, and he has to hold it at least six inches away from his ear. “Hey, Cassie! Where’d you run off to! Thought you were gonna get more booze.” 

“I never said I was going to get more booze,” Castiel says, as Reality sneaks up behind him. Chokes him. 

“Well, can you?” 

“You had two kegs!” Jesus Christ. “You’re cleaning up in the morning.” 

“Roger that.” Pause. “So you coming back or what? This is no fun without you.” 

They seemed to do alright the last two hours. “I’m coming, I’m coming.” Castiel winces as he stands. “Try not to break anything.” 

“Nothing’s broken but Uriel. Anna kind of hit him. In a violent way, not in a sexy way.” 

There’s another roar of music, and the line goes dead. Castiel groans. 

“That sounded serious.” Dean is grinning, which is not appropriate for this grave occasion. 

“Anna and Uriel don’t get along.” Cas shrugs. “Never have. Anyway. I should—” 

“Be getting back.” Dean nods. “See you ‘round, Cas.” 

He hesitates another few moments, to take in the playground, the polluted sky, the real-ness that's crawling up his skin. In this moment, Castiel is _alive_ , and it almost hurts. But Dean doesn't say anything else. 

Cas goes. 

The city looks the same as he goes back the other way. Same ancient brickwork crammed in under glass office buildings and skyscrapers, same Seahawks fans either celebrating or drowning their sorrows— he’s not quite sure which. It’s the same, but it’s not, because Cas is sore and aching and beaming. 

There’s probably something wrong with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [End of the Beginning](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rhATDCGRGQw)


	3. Ramble On

I.  
“Dean,” Sam says, in an impossibly sassy voice. “Do not shop for me.” 

“Fine.” Dean raises his hands, backs away. Shopping at Goodwill with your big brother is marginally cooler than one of your parents (especially when said brother wears a leather jacket, thank-you-very-much,) but apparently only just. 

Sam then proceeds to select a flannel shirt almost identical to the one Dean had suggested a moment ago. 

_Eighth graders._

“How much money is in your pockets?” 

None, as Sam knows perfectly well. It’s all in the money belt around his chest, and Dean scowls, because he knows where this is going. Send a kid to school for an education and he comes back liking white rappers. 

“You’re supposed to say, ‘twenty dollars.’” 

“It’s not funny, Sam.” Someone nearby might overhear them and learn that Dean had failed in one of his brotherly duties. 

“Oh, come _on._ Yes it is.” 

“Go try on your clothes, Slim Shady.” 

Sam fiddles with the tag. Dean worries he’s trying to pop them, when—

“This is seven dollars.” 

“I can see that.” 

“You want me to try on four of them.” 

“You need clothes, Sammy. What do you want?” Dean should probably check out some new clothes for himself, but he doesn’t get the constant judgment of middle school kids. So it’s not as pressing of an issue. He looks good in anything, thank-you-very-much. There are rows of shoes and kitchenware on shelves above each rack, and he pushes the ones nearest to them closer together. An attempt at building a barricade, at keeping them out of sight. He has no real reason for doing so, but it keeps him calmer in places like this. Places with bright lights and wagging tongues.

“Are you dealing drugs?” 

He nearly knocks one of the vases over when he turns. “No, are you? Come on, Sam.” Pause. 

“Really.” 

“What, you think I’m growing weed in the Roadhouse?” 

Sam shrugs again. “I don’t know what you during the day, or those nights you leave me there.” 

There’s nothing to do but sigh, and wonder how Sam would react if he said he _was_ dealing drugs. He’s not, but it might be more acceptable. Except it could also get him arrested and he’s not going to risk that, not going to risk leaving Sammy on his own. 

“I’m not dealing drugs. Now go try on your clothes,” he says again. 

Sam drags his hangers towards the dressing rooms, taking a careful detour around the women’s section, ( _eighth graders_ ), and Dean follows. Gets his own room. Peels off his shirt and works two bills out of his money belt. 

It had been a week since he saw Cas, and still he’s got bruises. The oval green one, directly under his cash, where Cas kicked him. Knuckle marks on his side. 

At least the scratches on his face had been gone by the next day. 

He’s sort of proud of the rest. He hasn’t lost a fistfight in ages. It was a fluke, and he’d gotten spun around and then Cas was on him, and it had been exhilarating. If the Digos hadn’t killed his buzz— but, Dean thinks he has them pinned down at this point. He’ll go tomorrow. Persuade one to talk to him, and after that, it’s all about moving fast. 

Sam’s voice leaks under the crack in the door. He’s clearly trying to be quiet, but it isn’t working. “ _This is fu-cking awe-some._ ” 

It takes a lot of willpower to not bang his head repeatedly against the plastic mirror. 

“C’mon,” he says, once they’ve paid for their fancy-pants digs. “Let’s get burgers.” 

 

II.  
Starting conversations with his brother has become increasingly difficult. Dean goes for the basics. 

“You haven’t talked about that Jess girl in awhile.". 

“She moved to Cleveland.”

Clearly Dean needs to ask about his brother’s life more. “Did you ever ask her out?” 

Sam shakes his head, bangs flopping into his face. He needs a haircut, Dean thinks absently. “It’s not like we could trade phone numbers or anything. Or like I could take her anywhere. And if I met her parents they’d ask—” 

Dean grimaces. “You couldn’t just tell her the truth? I’d have given you money for a movie, man, I’d have gotten it somewhere.” 

Sam shakes his head again. Picks up a napkin and carefully wipes his face. “What if it got around?” 

And it stings, no matter what. That Sam is so ashamed of his life, and, by extension, Dean. That Dean can’t give his little brother something to be proud of. 

“Sam,” he says, leaning forward on his elbows. “Don’t be ashamed of our lives, not ever. That’s for me to worry about, alright?” 

“If I go to high school—”

“ _When_ ,” Dean snaps. “Hunter has to take you , I looked it up. And c’mon, man. You know Dad always wanted to send you to Garrison.” 

Sam somehow manages to take a bite if burger and look sulky at the same time. Dean was definitely never this annoying as a child. “I’m not going to Garrison,” he says. “You know that. And don’t make up some bullshit about Dad being gone to earn money, because we both know he’s not.” 

“You’re smart, you could get a scholarship.” This conversation isn’t helping Sam get his homework done, but Dean’ll cut it off in a minute. He has to. 

“We need an address for that.” 

“Maybe we’ll have one by then.” He has to talk through his burger now. “That’s for me to worry about, okay? You’re going to high school and, college, if you want. They’ll give you money.” And if not, Dean’s not above getting it, however possible. If that’s what he wants. If that’s what’ll make Sammy smile again. 

“You didn’t finish high school,” Sam mutters. “Why do you care if I do?” 

Dean doesn’t dignify that with a response. Just mutters “do your goddamn math” and leans back. Starts doodling on his napkin. It’s thin, with a Macdonald’s logo and a Wendigo yellow— right. 

“I’m going to go deal with some Digos tomorrow,” he says. “You’ll be okay at the Roadhouse?” 

Sam looks up. “Of course I’ll be fine. Jesus, Dean.” 

“Good then.” 

He could order another burger. They’re only two freaking dollars, but Bobby’s coaching is still bouncing around in his head. _Don’t eat unless you’re really hungry, Dean._ He knows he has a complicated relationship with food, and he knows that when he’s at the Roadhouse his eating gets closely monitored, and he knows that that comes from all the times without food before he’d figured out how to make money, and he needs a nap, probably. He chews on the inside of his mouth, just for something to do. 

“Do you know where they’re going to be?” Sam asks. 

“No, but there’s one that always stops at Albertson’s at the same time every day. I asked one of the workers. He’s been going there for years, but he only just started wearing the outfit. So I figure he’s my best bet.” Actually, Dean had paid the store worker fifty dollars to tell him. But that’s okay because he can make that up tonight. 

“Can we trust Cas?” 

“ _What?_ ” 

“Well I mean you told him about the gang thing, right?” Sam chews on the end of his pencil, and Dean swats it out of his mouth. Waste of good pencil, and he’s all too conscious about tooth hygiene because it’s not like they can fucking pay for a retainer. “I heard that being in a gang is like the cool new thing for rich kids to—” 

It’s hard not to laugh. “Cas isn’t in a gang,” he says. Well, unless you count his friends, but they don’t seem to hurt anyone but each other. “And the cool thing for rich kids to do is _pretend_ to be in gangs. I doubt anyone from Garrison is anyone but talk.” 

“Whatever.” Sam bends closer to his paper. “I need to finish this.” 

Dean nods, and continues staring out the window. There’s a newspaper stand, and he’s considering going and digging one out of the recycling— or even buying one, because he’s been spending a ridiculous amount of money today, might as well go all out— when Sam says, “You don’t need to wait with me.” 

“Yes I do,” Dean says. And that’s that.

III.  
It’s so easy to sneak in and out of the Roadhouse at night. They put a chain across the door, but there’s an upstairs window that doesn’t lock, and it’s easy to climb down the pipework. One of these days, he’s going to fall and break his neck and Ellen will never trust him again, but that’s alright. That’ll be alright. Because until then, it’s only a short bus ride down to Aurora. 

The driver looks at him knowingly when he gets off, and Dean, in a brilliant display, doesn’t give him the finger. 

The gas station is his normal place. Truck drivers and skeezy old men that motor down the Ave looking to get away from their wives or girlfriends or just stick their dicks in something that’s not their own hands. Sometimes they tell him these things, like he’s some kind of cocksucking therapist from a Penthouse Forum letter. Sometimes, he even listens. 

The man approaching him now doesn’t seem like he’s looking to talk feelings, though. 

He’s tall, with a long face and short, stubbly hair. He looks at Dean, and there’s only one reason they’d make eye contact here on this particular stretch of the ave. 

Dean tilts his head. Smiles a little. Raises an eyebrow in an offer. The man jerks his head, and holds out a wad of cash. 

“That’s forty,” he says. “How much does that get me?” 

Dean glances around, then indicates the back of the station. It’s pretty secluded there, and the convenience store closed half an hour ago— but even if it hadn’t, Dean had sucked off the cashier enough times that nobody would have bothered them. He gently pushes the John up against the shadowed wall. Ignores the muck and the hum and honks of cars passing on the other side.

He drops to his knees.

The man groans. “Tell me you’re eighteen. Please—”

“Since January,” Dean says. He’s been saying that for years, even when it was obvious he was lying. But it doesn’t matter. 

He unzips the man’s jeans with his teeth. It’s a trick he’d spent a significant amount of time practicing on mannequins— almost as much as he spent learning to deep-throat— and it never fails to ensure a repeat customer. Always gets some sort of noise— although it’s thankfully quiet with this guy. More like a hiss than anything. And that's a little weird, but Dean isn’t choosy. At least he doesn't have to look for his dick under the folds. 

Dean doesn’t feel bad about himself when he’s got an old man’s cock in his mouth. Doesn’t spend time feeling bad _about_ himself. It’s not degrading any more than his life is degrading, any more than having to rely on the donations to the Roadhouse. At least he _earns_ this money, Earns it in Hamiltons and Jacksons, but they add up. He’ll be able to score one more trick tonight if he times it right— he’s given himself an hour, and he's predictable enough that some people know where to look for him. Then he’ll catch the bus back. 

Fingers tighten in his hair. 

Maybe he _should_ feel gross and objectified by the filth coming out of the man’s mouth as he thrusts his hips forward— “Take it, _take it_ , you look so pretty down there—” but he’s heard worse. And it’s better than the ones that hate themselves for what they want, that curse him before and afterward but still give him their money, still demand his mouth on their cocks. “ _Whore._ ” 

Yeah, whatever. 

He swallows, and that’s it for Mr. John. 

Dean makes it back to the Roadhouse two minutes earlier than he’d planned. It doesn’t take him long to fall back asleep.

 

IV.  
Jo might be the one that goes to Hunter High School, Home of the Hunters, but Dean is the one with the skills in that department. 

It’s easy enough to recognize a Wendigo. Black hoodie, yellow bandanna sticking out of the pocket. Nothing too out of the ordinary for the laymen, but apparently it’s intimidating to those in the Know. 

Generally, it just makes Dean want to grab said bandannas and play tail-tag. 

He leans against the wall outside the store. Adjusts his hood. “Hey man,” he says, as his target Wendigo gets closer. “Bud?” 

The Target— a shortish guy of unknown race— hesitates, opens his mouth, barely gets a syllable out (it was probably going to be ‘no thanks,’ which is smart, yet unfortunate, because the smart ones are, well, smarter) before Dean has yanked him back behind the store. Hand over his mouth, and he spins him. Face to the wall. Arm twisted behind his back. Dean’s hands already in his pockets and pulling out a shiv. 

He grunts something that Dean thinks is ‘what the fuck?’ but he can’t be sure. He's too busy digging his knee into the boy’s back. 

“Alright,” he says, lowering his voice in an attempt to sound more threatening. “I’m not going to hurt you— but I have a few questions.” 

The guy manages to twist his head long enough to say “Who the fuck are—” before Dean has to silence him again. 

“I’m asking the questions,” he says. “I don’t _want_ to hurt you, that’d be a mess. Police and all. Are you a Wendigo?” 

Always start with the questions you know the answers to. He gives the guy a little room, but keeps twisting his arm. He can see all the pressure points, knows just how he’d move to knock the guy out or put him in a state of eternal torment. Twitch of his fingers. It’d be easy. 

And people think Dean Winchester doesn’t study. 

Think he doesn’t know every part of the body and how it can be used against them. 

It makes his jobs— fighting and fucking— that much easier.

“Are you a Digo?” he repeats, digging his finger into a very specific point. The guy is too macho to scream, but Dean does get a bit of a hiss. Just like the John last night, he thinks, although the circumstances are very different. 

“No.” 

“Liar. I’m not an idiot, I see your outfit. Let’s try this again.” They’re out of sight, but Dean doesn’t know if the guy has any friends around. He doesn’t want to have a full-out fight, because he knows his odds. “Are you a Digo?” 

“Yes,” the guy mutters. 

But Dean doesn’t have time for this, despite the illusion. It takes almost no motion to get to his knife, and then he holds it where the Digo can see it. 

It’s a very intimidating knife. Jagged edge, covered in scratches. Stained. With frozen jam and rubber, not blood, and it's not actually a knife but a sharpened gardening tool but what people don’t know… he moves the knife back. Traces along the guy’s shoulders. 

“That’s a good start,” he says. 

 

V.  
Dean raises another skittle. Green, like the shifters.

“Repeat after me,” he says. “ _Zeppelin rules_.” 

“Zeppelin rules,” Ben says obediently. Dean gives him the skittle.

“And what’s Black Sabbath’s best album?” 

“Masterality.” 

“Master of Reality. Good.” Dean gives him another skittle. Red, this time. Demon red.

Lisa plops down on the sofa, on Ben’s other side. Fixes Dean with a stare. “What are you doing to my son?”

“Tutoring.” Dean offers his cheekiest grin. The next skittle is Wendigo yellow. “Look at all he’s learned. Who sucks, Ben?” 

“Jefferstar Ship.” 

For someone with such a nice face, Lisa can sure push it into a bunch of interesting expressions. Dean makes one back at her. Ben, thinking they’re playing a game, smushes his up with his hands, and sticks out his tongue. 

“You win,” Dean tells him. Then, to Lisa, “is the phone free?” 

“Yeah.”

She gathers up the toddler, and marches him towards the door. 

“Zeppelin rules!” Ben yells again as it closes behind them. 

Dean grins. 

Jo doesn’t get in until three, but that’s when Sam comes too, and Dean doesn’t want to risk it. So he checks the time, again— he didn’t mean to memorize Jo’s lunch schedule or her phone number, it just happened— and then sticks two quarters in the meter. 

She picks up on the second ring. “I told you, Mom, the chore sheet—”

“It’s Dean.” 

“Oh.” There’s a rustling, and then the voices that had been loud in the background vanish. A door slams. “Hey Dean.”

“I saw two ‘Digos in the area,” he says. “I tracked one of them down. Know where they’re going to be. So I’m going to go say hello tonight.” 

“Okay, I’ll come with you.” 

“No way." 

“Dean—”

Dean rolls his eyes towards the ceiling. Jo’s self-defense skills are above average, and she can run like a freaking bullet, and she’s good with her knives, and has been asking Dean and the others to take her with them for years. He doesn’t know what she expects it to be like, but he knows that he likes Jo and he likes her mother and wants the first in one piece and the second not in jail for murder of the first degree. “Jo.” 

“Fine,” she huffs. “You taking Gordon’n Benny with you?” 

“Benny, maybe. If I see him between now and then.” Gordon, on the other hand, has been starting to concern him. Dean likes a good brawl just as much as Gordon does, but the later has a bloodlust that’s sometimes frightening.

“Victor?” 

“Sprained his ankle yesterday.” 

“Okay.” She pauses. “Well, nod to me when you leave. And if you don’t check in, I know what to do.” 

“Get the cavalry,” Dean says. Checking around to make sure that there’s nobody near the phone closet. “Thanks, Bro-anna.” 

“Get the fuck out of here.” 

But she’s laughing when she hangs up.

 

VI.  
The only logical explanation for any of this is that Mrs. Lilith is a demon. That would explain why one had to do a blood ritual to Satan to get the correct answer to any of the things. 

Yeah. 

Cas sighs. Flips a page in his book, in the hopes that it’ll be somehow illuminating. Somehow this page will make sense. 

Maybe this would be easier if he were high. 

Or at least he might not care. 

He’s still weighing the pros and cons when his phone buzzes. It starts crawling across the table, and it takes him a moment to connect the thoughts and neurons necessary to answer it. 

“Hey Jo.” 

“Cas.” There’s a pause. Behind her, he can hear the dull roar of a Roadhouse evening. “I, um. Okay. So this is— you’re totally allowed to say no. Definitely.” 

He frowns. “This sounds ominous.” 

“Well, I don’t know how many times you have to beat someone in a race to—”

“What’s going on, Jo?” It’s not like he isn’t looking for an excuse to not do calc. He closes his book. 

“You know Dean’s extra-curriculars?” 

On second thought, it’d be nice if he could just chill out, do a few Riemann sums, no big. “Yeah.” 

He can hear her take a deep breath. It sounds like waves, right before they come crashing down. “I didn’t know who to call,” she says. “I, so Dean’s going after this one group—”

“Wendigos?”

“—Yeah. So, he was going to bring Benny with him, if Benny showed, but Benny just showed up _here_ , so Dean’s alone. Could you…” she trails off for a moment, “Drive by there, maybe, just make sure he’s not bleeding to death or anything? Don’t— don’t fight anyone, or anything, don’t leave the car.” 

Cas is already pulling off his school shirt, because it’d probably be stupid to run around with a Garrison logo. Blank shirt, does he have a— he grabs his dad’s trench coat off the wall. 

“Cas?” 

“I’ll go,” he says, realizing he’d forgotten to answer. “Gimee an address?” 

“It’s on Industrial. Near the waterfront. Um…” there’s another hum behind her, and, shit. Car keys. Need the car keys. And— Jo reads a number at him. “He thought it was here. But it could be one of the houses nearby.” 

“Got it. I’ll call you.” Cas shoves his phone back in his pocket. What does he— gun. Parents’ room. 

Hand shaking, he spins the combination of his dad’s gun locker. When asked, Chuck says that he had them so that he could study them, describe accurately the ones that his characters use. And maybe that’s true, but Cas also can’t help but think that his father is a bit paranoid. Can't help think that maybe it makes Amelia Novak feel more secure, as though her getting a gun was a good thing.

Chuck had taken Cas to shoot, once or twice, but Cas still can’t tell any of them apart. There’s one that he’s pretty sure is a Colt, but it’s all old and antique. He grabs one at random. Shoves a magazine at it, and it goes in, so he can only hope that it’s the right one. That it won’t explode the gun if he has to shoot it, oh god, what if he has to shoot it. 

It’s okay. 

He can do this. 

He digs around in his room for a moment. Grabs an old license plate and then he’s running out the door. 

Wondering what the fuck he’s gotten himself into. 

 

VII.  
The only light in the area comes from a flickering street lamp, and Dean’s arrival couldn’t be more obvious if he’d rung the doorbell. On the up side, he likes to think he looks rather intimidating— a massive shadow rising through the window and then falling onto the floor. 

But he’s lucky. Nobody’s home. 

Which was the plan. 

He doesn’t turn his flashlight on, for fear of losing his night vision. He can see general shapes. Pieces of furniture that had probably been here— what is this, a former office?— and he’s trying to figure out where best to leave his message when he hears

Fuck. 

Fuck fuck fuckity fuck.

His hand goes to his knife as he shifts, tries to move back into the shadows. But then there are shouts and, oh, hell, there’re three of them. 

There’s nothing he can do now but flail. Head butt. Throw a few elbows, and he manages to knock one a few feet away. It takes almost no effort to tune out the stream of “c’mon, white boy, motherfucker, get out of here,” because it’s one on three and even though he’s got his knife out now he can’t help but— slash, stay out of the light, don’t let them see his face. It takes a moment to realize that the stream of profanity has changed, that one of them is asking what the fuck he wants there. Dean’s happy enough to answer even as he gets an elbow in the guy’s face. 

“Get the fuck out of downtown,” he says. Drops to the ground and rolls, gets to his feet a meter or so away so that he can knock one down from behind. “You’ve got Cherry and Yesler in the CD, right?” he’s managed to get away, enough where he can take a stand. Slash with his knife, and there’s a curse, and he’s hit someone, and the attacks come a little slower after that except for the tallest, and the way he’s moving, he has a knife, too, fuck. _Fuck._ Tall and Dean circle each other for a moment before— “I can’t let you stay here,” Dean says, and he’s going by feel now. Pretend it’s that fight with Cas on that playground, where it was dark and it didn’t matter. Feel the knife, avoid the knife, he can see by the shoulder— Tall’s shoulder is in the light— and he can tell where it’s going to be. Slash away. 

“You and what army?” asks one of the other two, one of the ones getting up off the floor. Dean hopes he doesn’t have a knife, but that’s the sound of a switchblade being opened, and, fuck, he has a knife. Okay. Two knives. Dean pulls back towards the window, thinking that if this was a movie, this would be the time that Benny and Vic showed up and said _this army._ He wouldn’t mind being Aragorn with his hundreds of dead warriors either. But he might be able to get out the window, regroup, make sure his face isn’t showing, and, okay, okay. Dodge the knife, dodge— 

Nothing stops a fight like the sound of a gun cocking. 

“Hands up. Line along the wall.” 

The person don’t shout _Police!_ and Dean doesn’t know what’s happening, but he moves automatically with the others. But that’s before the newcomer moves. Half his face enters the strip of light offered by the streetlamp, the one Dean had been trying to avoid, and, holy fuck. He looks— scary. Commanding. In the half-light and shadows, he’s almost inhuman. And that’s before Castiel moves a little more, revealing the long thin blade clenched in his other hand. It looks like a fucking sword. 

The lamp chooses that moment to flicker, which just adds to the dramatic effect. 

“Hey, put that back!” shouts one of the other boys. Dean would have more sympathy for someone who had had something so awesome stolen, except that not thirty seconds ago he had been trying to knock out Dean’s teeth. 

The **BANG** of the gun makes everyone flinch. 

The hole in the floor looks up at them, innocent. 

“Better hope nobody heard that,” Cas says. He’s always had a low voice, but it’s now more suited to an angel of death. “You.” Nods at Dean. “C’mon.” 

He’s not turning his back, but then he sees the window, and, okay. The Wendigos are still standing frozen, so Dean ninjas over the sill. Waits next to it until Cas gets out, until he falls and lands in motion, and then they run like hell. 

Feet on pavement, slap-slap-slap.

Dean doesn’t know if Cas has a destination in mind, but Cas is a faster runner than him anyway, so there’s nothing he can do but follow. One block, turn, another block. Cas throws his entire body into the side of a car, and then he’s fumbling with the keys and Dean is getting in and they’re screeching off. 

They can’t do anything but pant for the first couple of minutes. 

Dean’s leg itches. 

“That was pretty bamfy,” he says, when the silence has gotten uncomfortable. After they’ve covered three more blocks and run a red light. Cas nods. His hands are almost white on the steering wheel. And he’s a freaking wizard, if he’s this panicked, because he seemed so calm, so confident back there—

The car pulls over with a jerk. “Get out,” Cas says. 

“What—”

“Take the license plate off. It’s held on with duct tape.” Then, at Dean’s questioning glance, “then get back in. Obviously.” 

Dean has to give him credit for the idea, although he’s not sure if anyone would have caught their plates. Still, an out-of-state car, that’d be noticeable wouldn’t it? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know and when he gets back to the front Cas is shaking. Holding the wheel, muttering to himself, trying to breathe. 

“Oh my god,” he says. “Oh my god, _oh my god._ ”

Dean tries to be comforting. “You okay, man?” 

Cas snorts a little. And then they’re zooming away again, merging onto the highway now, and it’s dark and there aren’t very many cars around and Dean is starting to fear for his life when they pull over again, and Castiel jumps out and vomits over the railing. 

“Look out below,” Dean says quietly. “If you hit a car, maybe they’ll think it’s bird poop.” 

That gets a bit of a laugh, at least, and then Cas is kneeling, taking deep, shaking breaths. 

“Are you okay?” Dean asks again, even though the answer is rather obvious. 

“Yeah,” Cas says, and the lie is even more blatant. Dean can’t see his face again— he’s just a hunched shadow. Every car that zooms by, at sixty, seventy, feels like a dodged bullet. Whoom. Whoom. WHOOM. Maybe they all are. Every car could kill them, every moment could kill them.

“Okay,” Cas is saying. “Okay. Okay. I can— okay.” 

He throws up again. 

If he’s this freaked, Dean has to give him even more credit for how calm he’d appeared in the house. Or maybe he’d just been on adrenaline— he’ll ask, later. Later. Cas takes another deep breath and then stands. 

“We should run, probably,” he says. 

“I doubt they’re still following us.” _Not until they get guns, anyway_. Dean’s pretty certain that he just took them by surprise— they wouldn’t have just had shivs if they knew he was coming. Especially if they knew he was behind the Rugaru’s sudden demise. Not for the first time, he wonders if he’ll eventually have to kill someone. 

He wonders if he could. 

Cas’s merge back into traffic probably isn’t DOL-approved, but all they get is one honk from the semi behind them. The _semi_ , fuck, that must be the fourth near miss in the last hour. 

Time has gone so weird. Slow, and fast. And silent. It's screaming.

They cross the bridge, and Dean doesn’t know this area quite as well. “There a bus station you want to let me off at?” he asks, unsure of whether he’s supposed to talk or not. “I have money, I can—”

“You can just sleep at my house,” Cas says, uncertain. 

Rules, rules, though. “You don’t have to do me any favors." Because he’s not going to be Castiel’s charity case, his project, and he doesn’t want to have to _owe_ him. 

But then he gets a scared sort of glance and realizes that might not be the issue. 

“Please? It’d—” A sharp turn requires a pause, and Dean’s face against the window “—it’d, it’d be nice to have someone else in the house. I don’t think I’d be able to…” he trails off, and it seems that Dean’s negotiating time is up because they’ve stopped in front of what seems to be their final destination. Unless Cas has to puke again. It’s a small house, either gray or blue— Dean can’t tell in the light. 

“Alright,” he says.

 

VIII.  
Cas leans against the door for a moment after he closes it, trying to regain his ability to breathe. Okay. Yeah, he can do this. Deep breaths, deep breaths. “Bathroom is around that corner,” he says. “We should, um…” bandage and check for injuries. That’s safe ground. That’s something Castiel knows how to do. “Are you— bleeding anywhere?” he should have asked that before they got in the car, but he can always make excuses. Get it cleaned, if he has to. His parents would notice blood stains, right? 

“Um.” Dean hesitates, then reaches towards his side. “A bit, I think, I haven’t—” 

Right. Cas marches him into the bathroom. Sits him down on the toilet, tells him to take his shirt off, and then starts digging around the medicine cabinet. This, he knows. This he can do. But when he turns around, Dean hasn’t moved. 

“Dean, I promise that your virtue will remain intact if you take your shirt off.” 

He gets a bit of a laugh for that one, even though it’s followed by a wince. “No, it’s not that, I—” a pause, a chewing of a lip. And then Dean does peel his shirt off. There’s a tan strip of fabric around his chest, and Dean looks at Cas once more before he undoes a Velcro strap on the back. “It’s not a bra,” he says quickly. "Or a binder."

“No, really?” Cas eyes it as Dean carefully puts it down on top of his shirt. He’s planning on asking, but then he’s distracted by the sight of a mottled, bare chest. He can’t resist touching one of the bruises. One is dead in the middle, and he has a flash of swinging off the monkey bars. “Is that one mine?” 

Dean smirks. “Yes.” 

Huh. He lifts up his own shirt halfway, to show Dean the print that’s eerily similar to the boots Dean kicked off when they came in. The other boy seems no less proud of himself, and then Cas turns his attention to what is actually relevant— the scratches along his side. 

“Was it rusty?” 

“I don’t even remember what I got ‘em from.” 

Cas sighs, and raises the bottle of iodine. “Do you want something to bite down on?”

He isn’t sure if what he gets is a laugh or a groan, but he busies himself dampening a paper towel. 

“You do this a lot?” Dean asks. “Or are you just doing that thing where you don’t know what you’re doing but you pretend like you do so that everything works out.” 

_Takes one to know one?_ “I do this a lot,” Cas says. “For Gabe’n the others.” 

Dean shifts a little, allowing access to his scrapes. “Your friends secret mafia members?”

“No, but they’d like to convince you of that. Ready? Three, two.” 

“That wasn’t funny,” Dean says, and then yelps when the iodine napkin hits his skin. “ _Ow. Fuck._ ” 

“Sorry! Sorry.” Cas switches to a new napkin to do the rest. “Have you had a tetanus shot?” 

“ _Fuck._ ” Dean grist his teeth, and it’s not until Cas is done with the iodine and is dabbing at it carefully with a diaper wipe— heart rate almost back to normal unless he looks up at Dean’s face— that he deigns to answer. “Yes, Cas. I’m up on every vaccine. I get my tetanus shots _religiously._ ” 

“So that’s a no?” 

“Of course I haven’t had a fucking tetanus shot.” 

Well, hopefully it wasn’t rusty, then. And he’s normally content to sit in silence but right now— “Gabe broke Uriel's arm once,” he says, both to reassure Dean that he has been in fights before and also because if he thinks too long he’s going to throw up. Again. 

Dean looks vaguely disturbed. “Did you set it?” 

“Course not. We took him to the ER. And people came in all quiet-like, asked him if he was being abused, if it was a hate crime, if he was being bullied. Then, shortly after he got his cast, he brained Gabe in the head with it when Gabe wasn’t looking.” Large Band-Aid over the part that had been bleeding the most, and two ibuprofens, doctor’s orders. (Dean asks if Cas is bleeding anywhere, but he isn’t, just a sore wrist from the kick of the gun, _he fired a gun._ ) 

“Well, I was going to apologize, but I guess this _is_ what you’re used to doing when you’re hanging out with people?” Dean winces as he stands, but neither leaves the bathroom. Cas is stuck there, staring in the mirror. He’s not sure what’s wrong with his face, but he isn’t sure if it’s his anymore, and where the hell did that thought come from? He’s losing it, he’s officially losing it. Still. Today has been— Christ, what did he do? 

It’s an effort, suddenly, to answer Dean, but once he starts he’s on a roll. Has to get out of the bathroom, because there are other bottles of pills within reach, and he has to resist the urge to grab them, Dean won’t mind, would he mind? Got to… got to… 

He steers Dean back out into the living room. “Jo and I have been trying to figure out how friendships are supposed to work,” he says. “I’ve been friends with the Garrison guys since preschool. I don’t even remember how we met. So I don’t know how it’s supposed to go.” 

“Are you and Jo—?” 

Cas freezes, halfway to the sofa. “ _No._ ” He’d sort of assumed that Jo had told Dean… “No. We’re... friends.” 

“Jo just doesn’t really do friends, is all,” Dean says. “I mean, she hangs out with us, but.” 

“Yeah, she told me.” 

They stare at each other for a minute— Castiel isn’t sure if he’s being challenged, if there’s something he’s supposed to say to break through the ice that seems to have crawled back over them. So he does the next best thing, which is to sit on the couch. But then that seems wrong, somehow, so he stands back up and darts into the kitchen. Pulls out a can of Progresso Chicken Noodle, and holds it out to Dean like a peace offering. 

“I don’t really date,” he says. “I just—” hook up? Kiss? Make out? Fuck? “Put it in one of those bowls there.” 

Dean does. “I don’t either. Date, I mean.” 

And Cas doesn’t know why he’s telling Dean any of this, except that he’s never had someone so— outside of his life. Who probably won’t judge him for it, given Dean’s world. “I’ve only had sex with one person,” he says, while doing an inventory of the refrigerator. Because he can’t look around him. The words sound weird as they’re coming out. “I don’t even know the guy’s name.” 

“Guy?” 

Don’t look, don’t look. “That okay?” 

“Dude. Over forty percent of the people I’m friends with are gay, according to Ellen’s sign.” 

_I'm not gay._ “Cool.” Cas closes the refrigerator. “I haven’t told my parents yet. They’ll either freak out or sort of nod and forget.” 

Microwave beeps, Dean takes the soup out. Dumps half in a second bowl for Cas. Cas hesitates a moment— _I’ll just tell them it was Anna_ — before reopening the fridge and yanking two beers out of the six-pack. It’s going on midnight. 

It feels earlier. 

Later. 

Somewhere in between. 

“You really think it’ll be a problem?” Dean asks. “I mean, religious school, but this is _Seattle._ I see ‘support equality’ banners on like half the churches.” 

Cas can’t do anything but shrug and blow on his soup. It seems to be all noodle and no chicken, which means that Dean probably has mostly chicken and no noodle. Damn him. Clearly, the answer is alcohol.

_Running running gunshot loud loud fear terror._

He might need more if he’s going to sleep tonight. But he finishes his soup. Stows the bowl safely on top of a pile on the counter. 

“So how come nobody’s home?” Dean asks, after a moment of absolute silence. It takes Cas a moment to realize. 

“They’re on a book tour, and Anna’s already left again.” 

“Book tour?” 

Dean finishes off his soup with an impressive slurp and adds it to the pile before Cas decides he’s okay with answering. 

“Yeah, he writes this fantasy series under a penname. He’s on tour now to promote the start of Year Four.” 

“So, what, it’s—” Dean takes a drink. “—Hogwarts, or something?” 

“No,” Cas says. “They’re… more novellas, about brothers that kill evil shit. He doesn’t write all of them, obviously—” There’s this Google docs account that he uses to communicate with his ghostwriters and that’s got so much security it makes Cas’s head spin— “But he does all the plot. I got _Skyfall_.” 

It’s obviously too late on a Wednesday night for anyone to be watching _Skyfall_ , but they go into the living room anyway, possessed by the restlessness that can only be cured by watching obviously fake stunts. Lives that are not theirs. Cas can feel Dean laughing at him as he messes with the DVD player, pressing every button until he figures out which ones work, and— “I usually watch movies on my laptop.” When he watches movies, which is rarely. 

“So is it cool? Having author parents?” 

There’s like three freaking remotes. Because of course they need a DVR, God forbid that Chuck miss an episode of _Grimm_ while he’s gone. “Well, they’re gone a lot,” Cas says, “which is cool. Although when they’re here Dad’s mostly in his fantasyland and Mom’s--" Sometimes in Fantasyland-- "mostly being a Publicist so she’s always out of the house so.” He’s pretty sure this is the right combination of buttons, and, _yes_ , there’s the menu screen. He goes back to join Dean on the sofa. 

“Popcorn?” 

Cas raises his bottle. “Real men drink beer.” 

“Fair enough.” 

The parkour scene in the beginning is longer than Cas remembers it, and it’s a few minutes in that he starts talking again. “He’s introducing angels to his mythology in year four.” 

“Yeah?” 

Bond steals a motorcycle. 

“One of them is named Cassiel. The main one.” 

Dean turns to grin at him. “Any relation?” 

That’s almost exactly what Cas had asked. Before he’d figured it out. “That was supposed to be my name. Castiel isn’t actually an angel— they, um, there was a typo on the birth certificate. So they just went with it, and since I was born on a Thursday, they decided to call me the angel of Thursday. ‘Cause’a the ‘t’. And he said—” his bottle is empty, and that’s not enough to get tipsy, so it’s all Dean’s fault his mouth is still moving, the dick. Or maybe it’s that Bond has only just jumped the train. He doesn't remember what he was saying, anymore, but it must not have been important. 

A second beer, and he’s all nerves and alcohol and stress and so he’s not expecting to fall asleep. Doesn’t realize that he’s been dozing off until he hears Dean’s voice, low in his ear: “Before I kill you, Mr. Bond, I must grope you.” 

Cas cracks an eye open. Dean’s shoulder is pressing into his cheek, or maybe his cheek is pressing into Dean’s shoulder. He isn’t sure if it’d be worse to jerk away or just stay there, and he’s frozen in panic for a moment, what does he do what does he—

“Dude,” Dean says, oblivious to his crisis. “James Bond just suggested he’s bi?” 

That’s when he sits up, because he’s not going to discuss men fucking men while pressed up against a man that he would not be entirely averse to fucking. “So?” he asks, hoping Dean can’t tell that he’s read so many essays about that very possibility online. 

“So.” The warehouse on the screen is reflected in Dean’s eyes when he grins. “That just added a whole new layer to my fantasies.” 

It doesn’t make James Bond any less fictional, but Cas has more pressing questions. “Thought you were straight.” 

“There are always exceptions,” Dean says confidently. Then— “wait did they just, what the hell?” 

They don’t talk for the rest of the movie, except for the occasional laugh. And then they do, when Dean is starting to tell him just how awesome the finale is, even though “sucks about the house,” when he falls asleep mid-sentence. 

Cas smiles a little. 

Anna had stolen some of the blankets when she went back to Spokane, and Castiel isn’t about to go stripping his parents’ bed, so he ends up covering Dean in his wings. 

He retreats into his room. Forgoes tooth-brushing and pajamas and sort of throws himself on top of his covers. 

The gunshot echoes over and over in his head, and he tries not to think about the— fucking _sword_ , even if it’s barely a foot long— that he’s hidden deep in his closet. 

It takes another beer to fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Ramble On](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gvQ2oKSLIGQ)


	4. Sleeping Village

I.  
It takes several minutes to realize that that beeping sound is not Uriel forgetting how to talk, but his alarm clock. 

Several more to process that, yeah, it’s six-thirty, and he should probably get up. 

Another moment to remember— 

Dean. 

He scrambles out from under his sheets, fast enough that all the blood rushes to his head, his eyes blur and he bumps into his dresser, his bookshelf, and his door frame in quick succession. Because he can parley with gangsters no problem, but getting out of bed, that’s the tricky part. When he finally reaches the living room— all of twelve steps away— it takes him a moment to realize that it’s empty. As is the rest of the house. The wing blanket is neatly folded on the sofa, first aid cleaned up in the bathroom. The massive pile of dishes has transmogrified into neatly stacked things in cupboards that Cas barely recognizes. 

A bubbling sound makes him jump, and he spins, half expecting to find Dean sitting behind him at the table. Like maybe he just missed him the first time he looked. But it’s just the coffee maker that the Novak family rarely uses, bubbling like it’s happy to finally be recognized. 

Castiel doesn’t drink coffee. But then, he thinks, he’s sore— really fucking sore, becoming more noticeable every moment, so fuck the police. Dean made him coffee. 

He pulls out his phone, Googles ‘first time drinking coffee,’ and then applies the suggested ingredients. (Namely, milk. And sugar. And more sugar.) 

It’s disgusting, so he adds more milk, and then his phone is Hark!ing the Harold again. 

It’s another blast of noise when he answers it, but this time it’s not a party. 

“Heeeeey, little bro,” Gabriel says. There’s an unhealthy amount of cheer in his voice, which is how Castiel knows something is wrong. “Any chance— sorry, it’s so late, but—”

“I’ll be there in twenty,” Cas says. Hopes the coffee really will wake him up, because he only slept about three hours. 

“Thanks.” 

A door slams in the background just before Gabe hangs up. 

Gabriel’s older brothers have been at each other’s throats for as long as Castiel can remember. Shoves and chore wars turned into full-fledged drunken fights somewhere around high school, and even constant separation— Michael is in grad school in Eugene, Lucifer is in college in Wyoming— hasn’t made it any better. Their dad had suggested more than once that they alternate breaks, not coming home at the same time, but Lucifer had pitched a fit and accused everyone of trying to throw him out and that had been the end of that. 

Castiel’s sofa is used a lot during the summer. 

The gun is still sitting by the passenger seat, he realizes when he gets in the car, and after a moment of panic he takes out the bullets— _justincasejustincase—_ and then shoves it in the glove compartment. Because nobody uses glove compartments anymore, right? People just wear their gloves in the car. Only if he got arrested, when they’d ask to see his registration, the registration is in there, what if he opens it and they see the gun and shoot him, what if they— he opens it up again, takes out the registration, and puts it in with the cassette tapes in that box between the seats. 

_Breathe._

He’s fine. He’s fine. He was in a fight and he didn’t even have to punch anyone. It was fine. Easy. He turns the car on. It starts. It’s fine if he drives it, because they’ll be looking for one with Colorado plates, and he’s had his license for two years, he can drive just fine. Everything is fine, and if he keeps freaking out, someone is going to notice. 

Hand shaking, he turns on the radio. Tries to find the news, but they’re just talking about Snoqualmie pass being closed for avalanche blasting. But of course they wouldn’t be talking about the kids that shot at each other last night. Nobody knows. 

Gabe is waiting outside when Castiel shows up. It takes him all of two seconds to get in, and then they’re peeling out of there like a getaway car. 

The beaten down Subaru seems to have found a calling. 

“So, where were you last night?” Gabriel asks. “Thought you were gonna study for calc.” 

_Shitfucktittyshit._

Cas had been a little distracted, what with the gun and all, and his wrist still hurts from the kick and he wonders if he’s even going to be able to write legibly. He drinks more coffee. Thanks God for travel mugs.

“I was—” he has to bite his tongue to keep the entire story from slipping out. Before that party, there had never been anything he hadn’t told the others. And he’d certainly never lied to them. 

His skin crawls. 

Lying to Gabe is— _wrong._ Goes against everything. 

“Jo called me,” he says. “Roadhouse crisis.” 

There’s that trademark smirk. “You’ve got it bad, bro.” 

“What?” 

“Just taking off without telling anyone, ditching everything because Joanna called?” 

_Impossible is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result._ “I don’t— me and Jo are friends. We’re not— I don’t want it to be like that. It was just an emergency, she needed someone to be there.” 

“Like what?” 

“Personal.” 

It’s seven-thirty when he pulls up in front of Garrison, leaving Gabriel forty five minutes to pursue this line of questioning. Castiel isn’t lying when he says he has to go and study calculus, or when he steals Gabe’s Red Bull because _he seriously needs it more, shut up,_ and he attributes the caffeine to the fact that he’s even conscious right now. 

Although his looming test-related doom doesn’t keep him from pulling out his phone. 

_Did Dean make it to RH okay?_

Jo Harvelle  
>I’m at school, dumbass.  
>>RH isn’t open.  
>>And he doesn’t come every day.  
>>Oh, fine, I’ll text Mom, ask her to let me know. He disappear this morn?  


"What's she sa-aying?" Gabriel asks, words going up and down like a bouncing ball.

“Gabe.” Castiel turns. “Who gave you a ride to school this morning, lets you throw parties at their house, helped you glue Lucifer’s underpants to—” 

“Alriiiight. Wait, who gave you Red Bull?” 

But Cas is on a roll. “Covered for you when Mike asked about your new girlfriend, _didn’t_ tell Samantha you’d slept with—”

“I get it,” Gabriel sighs. “M&Ms to make it better?” 

Cas takes the M&Ms. “I’m only friends with you for your food,” he says. 

“I know.” 

“Jo is just a friend. I don’t want it to be anything more. Neither does she.” 

“Fair enough.”

“Don’t you have first period?” 

Gabriel sits himself down on the table, paying no heed to the _silence in the library_ sign. “Religion. We’re second semester seniors, bitch. It’s the Genesis of our _lives,_ Don’t got time for no Epistles.”

Cas is so tired. And, fucking Hell. “I place this test in the hands of God,” he says, slamming his textbook. 

“Atta boy.” Gabe thumps him on the back. 

II.  
>> _Dad_  
>>Think it’s fair if Angels have to ask you permission before they possess you?” 

_Who would agree to that?_

>It’s an angel. 

_It’s still losing all your choice. What’s even the difference between an angel and a demon?_

>….  
>>…Whoa. I think you just gave me an entire _series_ full of plot.  
>>…Whoa. 

>> _Mom_  
>>Your dad is supposed to do a reading in ten minutes and you’ve given him an existential crisis. Good job. 

_Do the readers even know about angels yet?_

>No

“I hope I’m not interrupting a matter of national security, Castiel,” Ms. Naomi says. 

Cas looks up. Blood half frozen, stomach folding in on itself. “Sorry.”

“Want to share your drama with the class?” 

Naomi is always, always a Red Alert. It’s a general consensus among students that she’s impossible to lie to, and even though his brain is screaming _no_ , the words are coming out. “My father is having an existential crisis.” 

Her face puckers, and she holds out one ringless hand. It was also a general assumption that the reason she wasn’t married was that she’d never met a man who could tell a truth that she liked. “Phone.” 

Cas gives her the phone. 

He should have just said ‘sorry’ and put it in his pocket. Cursing himself, he bends over his worksheet and tries to take notes on the Great Schism movie. It’s a little hard, since he left his religions notebook at the Roadhouse a few days ago. 

He takes them on the back of a math worksheet.

She calls him over after class. 

“Sit, Castiel.” 

“Um…” he glances at the clock. “I have European—”

“Sit, Castiel.”

Castiel sits. 

“Good.” She places his iPhone on the table between them, but Cas knows better than to pick it up. 

“I was investigating it, and I noticed some disturbing things, Castiel.” 

He freezes. “You went through my messages? That’s— You have no right to do that.” His glare isn't really up to snuff this morning, but he tries anyway. “And— it’s password—” 

“B-C-G-U?” She smiles. “You keep your friends to close. But that’s not why I’m concerned.” He can’t express all the rage that’s building up. He imagines lunging forward, punching her in the head. He imagines tearing off her stupid smirk. His limbs all burn from the effort of holding them still, but he can’t say anything to her, he _can’t_. “I noticed the recent messages with Joanna Harvelle.” 

What, is he not allowed to talk to girls? “She—”

“Works at the Roadhouse. I gathered. I _am_ the head of the religions department.” She’s still got that stupid, stupid half smile. Like she’s reasoning with a small child. _I’m sorry, you simply can’t have your pudding if you don’t eat your meat._ Cas has to look away from her. Stares at the poster over her head— a list of the commandments. _Thou shalt not kill. _Right. “I did review the Plunge schedule and contacts. What is your relationship with Dean Winchester?”__

He has to look back at her face now, because his mouth is falling open. “ _What?”_

“Dean. That’s Dean Winchester, am I correct?"

“We’re friends,” Cas says. _How do you know him?_ But she understands the question, because she’s a fucking mind-reader. Or something. 

Castiel hates her. 

“Mr. Zachariah told me that you saw him, that you two— uh— _’hit it off.’_ Furthermore, I _am_ a Garrison graduate,” she says. Folds her hands. “Did you ever wonder how two upstanding Garrison alums left their children homeless? I’m trying to _protect_ you, Castiel.” 

_Stop saying my name at the end of every sentence._ He manages to move his arm, snatches his phone off the table. “None of that is any of your business.” 

“I’m trying to _help_ you.” 

__“You can’t go through my phone like that.”_ _

__She raises one perfectly plucked eyebrow. “By all means. Have your parents write a letter.”_ _

__Castiel hates her. Hates her hates her hates her hates her hates her hates her hates her. He has to bite down on the _fuck you_ that’s trying to come out, and when he leaves, there’s a thing on the door to keep it from even _slamming_._ _

__Fuck that._ _

__He wants to storm out of the building and get high and scream and rage, but he doesn’t, because he’s late to European history and he doesn’t have a note and Mr. Ness glares at him when he comes in, but doesn’t say anything. Because he’s probably got one of those cartoon thunder clouds above his head, and she has no right, _no right_ to go rooting through his life like that. _ _

__Fuck it._ _

__Fuck it fuck it fuck it._ _

__

__III.  
He can’t do anything but tell the story to the others. They’re on the lawn, away from the school— it’s the only place Cas feels secure right now. The school might be Big Brothered or something. _ _

__Uriel is incredulous. “She went through your _phone?”_ _ _

__“And then Sherlocked it together.” Balthazar frowns. “That’s got to be against _some_ rule, right?” _ _

__Cas sighs. “What am I gonna do? I’ll just… get revenge at some point. At the end of the year. She can’t bust me then.”_ _

__“I’m on it,” Gabe says. He rolls onto his stomach and flips his notebook open onto the grass. “Revenge— on— Angela— Beth— Naomi." Underlines it. Twice. Pen nearly tearing through the paper. “Let’s brainstorm.”_ _

__“Shut up.” Cas goes from sighing to scowling. “It’s just— God.” But then he's distracted, because Uriel is opening a Tupperware box full of brownies, and, yes please._ _

__“No,” he says, when he sees Cas looking. “You have the calc test after lunch.”_ _

__“So what, you’re my sober companion now?”_ _

__Another scowl. “You go to calc high, and Lilith will notice. And if you get caught high—”_ _

__“The rest of us get molested,” says Gabriel, “and they take away my itching powder.”_ _

__“To be fair, it _did_ look like coke.” _ _

__Gabe tackles Castiel then, knocking his yogurt over, and Cas will never admit how proud he is of his next move— using the downward slope to his advantage, he rolls back. Shoves Gabriel over him, then rolls himself, flipping so that he lands straddling his friend’s back._ _

__He presses a hand to the back of an exposed neck._ _

__A couple moments of struggle, then— “Mr. Rolston’s nipple. Let me up.”_ _

__“We really need a new safe word,” Uriel says. And Bathazar’s snort is an impressive one._ _

__“You kidding? It’s the best. All hail Castiel.”_ _

__“Shut up.” Normally Cas would be reveling in his brief moment of triumph— he has no doubt that Gabriel will take him down again later— but all he can do seems to be staring sadly at the blob of yogurt in the grass._ _

__IV.  
Dean visits the Impala again. _ _

__It had first showed up at the salvage lot two weeks ago, and Dean had come by to visit it almost every day since._ _

__They’re restoring it. Cleaning, replacing parts, making it eBay worthy— but the fixing jobs (the _real_ jobs, he’d been told,) come first, so the Impala is often neglected. Even though Dean’s fingers are itching to open her up. Rebuild and remake her until she purrs. _ _

__He knows exactly what he’d do. He’d clean and fix the trunk, so that he could put their clothes in it. Fix the seats so that they’d recline almost all the way, so that they could sleep on them. He could make him and Sammy a home in that car. All he’d have to do would be spread his legs for a few thousand strangers, or convince someone to hire him._ _

__And he’d have to become an oil exec or something to pay for the gas, the insurance, the tags, and the money should be put towards Sam. Towards his school. Towards an apartment for them. An apartment with showers and a permanent address where they could leave their stuff, where they could have more than would fit in a backpack and a Roadhouse locker. The car is entirely impractical, and Dean knows a fantasy when he sees one._ _

__That hadn’t stopped him from asking the owner of the lot, Rufus, for a job. But apparently people go to school for years to become a mechanic. Go figure._ _

__Rufus is alright, though. He’s a friend-enemy-long-lost-relative-or-something of Bobby’s, although that doesn’t keep him from glaring at Dean. And frisking him whenever he gets too close, as though he’s going to put a Mustang in his pocket._ _

__It’s a side effect of being Dean. But he shouldn’t complain. He knows that Victor and Gordon get it worse— although in all fairness, at least Gordon deserves it._ _

__The rest of the lot is so pretty, too, although it’s entirely lost on the people that live in the surrounding apartments. Rufus has been fighting for years to keep from losing the space, from having it turned into another high-rise. The yard is full of all kinds of cars— plastic new Toyotas and crumbling Bugs, the history of America in metal and rubber— and Rufus is the only mechanic in the area who doesn’t have a habit of inventing problems. And everyone knows it._ _

__He sits down on the curb. Looking at it like it’s an art installation, because it is._ _

__Bela would probably steal the car for him, if he asked, but the idea of being in Bela’s debt is scarier than the idea of being caught with a stolen car._ _

__Still. Dean imagines pulling up to Castiel’s house in the Impala. Imagines Cas coming outside, and the two of them just driving, driving anywhere. To the Space Needle. To the Gates mansion. To Alaska. It’s such an easy image, and that fact disturbs him for some reason. He has to add Sammy to the car._ _

__He isn’t sure where Cas fits into his life. Because he trusts him (for some reason) and likes him, but he hasn’t known him long enough for him to be family. Isn’t sure why he pulled him closer last night, when he was asleep. Maybe because normally the only person falling asleep next to him like that is Sammy and brotherly instincts kicked in. Just that this time said instinct had come along with an urge to flip Cas over and fuck him stupid. But that’s just a normal post-fight reaction, he’s pretty sure. It’s not a big deal. He’s seen the guy three times, but it’s still fine if he comes on Dean’s fantasy escape._ _

__But if he wasn’t planning on coming back, he’d have to bring the others too. Jo and Ellen. Benny and Victor could cuddle up to Bobby in the trunk, maybe Ben would fit on someone’s lap—_ _

__He shakes his head._ _

__He has all these people _here._ Because it’s not like he can’t leave. He has enough money to put him and Sammy on a Bolt Bus to Portland— it’s just that it’s not any better being homeless in Portland. Worse. Because here, he has people. _ _

__And he’s going to stay, because when one gets lost, they’re supposed to stay put. So someone can find them._ _

__If his dad comes back, he’d never look for them in Portland._ _

__Dean is pathetic. Plain and simple._ _

__It’s gonna be a buck twenty-five to bus back to the Roadhouse in time for lunch, but it’d be a dollar more to go get some fast food. He can spare the money, he knows he can, but there’s still the ever-present sense of guilt when he spends anything on himself. Gotta get Sam through school, gotta keep Sam’s life as normal as possible, gotta gotta gotta. He turns away from the salvage yard and makes for the bus tunnel._ _

__V.  
He makes it just in time to get a heaping scoop of beans from a woman in a church group t-shirt. _ _

__That should have been his first sign that this wasn’t going to go well. Shoulda stuck with the burger._ _

__But the rest of his people are at their usual table in the corner, and it’s not like he did anything wrong last night, so he goes to join them. He’s trying to think of a good spin on the story, but apparently his effort was wasted, because Gordon is doing that glare-y thing the moment he sits down. Before he’s even gotten a good bite of gas-inducing beans._ _

__“The Wendigos have a hit out on two white boys.”_ _

__“Huh,” Dean says._ _

__Gordon glares. “Anything to say?”_ _

__“One of them was me?” Nobody expected the Spanish inquisition. He bites the inside of his mouth. Maybe if he eats enough he’ll be able to fart all over Gordon’s stuff._ _

__“Who was the other?”_ _

__“A friend.” He’s slightly alarmed at how easily he says it. Maybe that was the word he’d been looking for, earlier. “So?”_ _

__They all stare at him for a moment. Pathetic, really, when people can’t believe you have friends. Sure enough—_ _

__“You don’t have friends,” Victor says._ _

__“Well, what the hell does that make you?”_ _

__Vic shrugs. “Besides us,” he clarifies._ _

__Benny hasn’t said anything yet. Dean turns to him now, but only gets a calm sort of stare. At least _he_ doesn’t seem pissed. _ _

__Objective: consume food as fast as possible and get the hell out of there. Dean begins to shovel. He should have gotten another tortilla._ _

__“I was with Castiel,” he says finally. “Sort of.” A pause for some more staring and chewing, then: “What? Guy was good.”_ _

__“You just tellin’ everyone now?” Gordon leans forward, and Dean tenses, bracing for a fight. “First your brother, now that Gilligan kid?”_ _

__“Garrison,” Benny says._ _

__Dean ignores him. “The fuck, ‘first your brother’? You sayin’ I shoulda lied to Sammy?” Gordon’s mouth twitches. “You’re shitting me.”_ _

__“He’s a kid. He’s fourteen! He goes to school! How do you think he gets his girl a’ the week club? You blind, man? He’s gonna tell his friends, if he hasn’t already, gonna try and impress people, and one of them will have a brother in the gang or something and then—”_ _

__Dean stands. “Watch it.”_ _

__“I’m sorry, man. But I don’t trust the kid. I don’. And now you tell me you told a—” his eyes flick to Benny— “ _Garrison_ kid? What, you bond in the kitchen, spill all your secrets?” _ _

__“That’s the kid Jo’s friends with, right?” Victor asks. “The new volunteer?”_ _

__A nod. “We fought,” he says. “He beat me. He’s _good_ , man. At fighting.” _ _

__“And you trusted him to come on and fight? ‘Hey man, want to hang out, let’s just—’”_ _

___I trust him more than you,_ Dean thinks. “You told Jo.” _ _

__“Right, because Jo’s useful.”_ _

__“Because you _wanted to use her as bait._ ” Dean can’t lean close enough over the table, can’t get in Gordon’s face the way he wants to, not without attracting Ellen or Bobby’s attention. _ _

__Gordon moves farther forward himself now. They were sitting across from each other at a round table, but now— “She was okay with that!”_ _

__“The fuck is wrong with you, man?” Dean’s going to punch him. He has to pull himself away. “Don’t say a word about, or to, my brother.” Breathe. Breathe. Turn. Grab try. Get up to put it in the bin. He’ll get that other tortilla on the way out because right now he has to get away from this table. Footsteps behind him, and he turns, raising a hand— but it’s just Benny, bumping elbows with him as he sorts his recycling from his garbage._ _

__“You didn’t invite Cas, did you,” his friend guesses._ _

__Dean shakes his head. “Jo called him. When she figured out I was out alone.”_ _

__“And he went?”_ _

__Nod. “Looked scary as all hell. He’s _good_ , Benny. He’s really good. Showed up and—”_ _

__“Stole Roman’s knife.” Ah, there’s Gordon again. Everywhere Dean turns. “He stole Roman’s favorite knife.”_ _

__Well that's a fun factoid. And a slightly suspicious one. “He shouldn’t have left it— why would he leave it in an empty office? They weren’t moving in, they _don’t_ ‘move in’ places. That wasn’t anywhere near where Roman would be— he doesn’t go to neutron zone.” _ _

__“How the fuck would I know?” Gordon snaps, carefully sorting his compost out of his trash. “Just repeating what I heard. Because you know what? Now me and cracker are going to have to finish up ourselves.”_ _

__“They surprised me,” Dean snaps, because really there’s no reason to shut him out. Even if he’d just tried to keep Gordon out. “Don’t have to leave me behind.”_ _

__The other boy’s breath smells like beans. Dean farts, just to make a point, but Gordon probably doesn’t even hear him over his own talking. “I’m not doing this for your brother. And I can’t afford fuck-ups. I’m in this fight ‘cause every time some dumbass gang spreads, and I go North or West, people look at me like I’m about to rape and pillage the whole hood. And I can’t afford that.”_ _

__“You do pillage,” Benny points out. Moving slightly in front of Dean, and Dean does not need Benny to defend him, dammit, even though it’s nice to know that _someone’s_ on his side. _ _

__Gordon shoves him. “Say that louder, could you?” he hisses. “I’m talking about injustice. Can this napkin go in recycle?”_ _

__“Nah.” Apparently tired of being left out, Victor is limping forward to join their trash can party. “You’re mad because it makes shoplifting harder. Don’ worry— nobody expected any different.”_ _

__The glaring contest goes on for another minute._ _

__“I wonder if there’s any more cranberry juice,” Benny says. They all look at him, and he grins, revealing teeth that are stained slightly red. “That shit is the best.”_ _

__He looks like a vampire, and Dean snorts. Shoots one glance around to make sure that nobody is about to throw them out for fighting, and retreats to the sofas. Where he remains, flipping through newspapers and a couple magazines— one of which has a blurb about Carver Edlund’s book tour. He’s halfway into it when the front door is flung open, and Jo and Cas himself come bursting through._ _

__“—Perfectly good mascot,” Cas is saying. “Warriors of God. Badasses, all around.”_ _

__“What do you sing at games, then? Angels We Have Heard On High?” ,_ _

__“Angels We Have Heard _While_ High.” _ _

__They get a disapproving look from Ellen, and a “Hello, Castiel. You weren’t on the schedule today.”_ _

__“I’m just picking up a book I left here,” he says. But Dean doesn’t miss how his eyes flit from table to table until they finally meet. And then he’s frozen, and Dean doesn’t know if he’s supposed to go over and say hello, or what. But then Gordon has noticed him. Dean can’t see Gordon’s face, but he can see Castiel’s reaction: can see the way he’s tensing up, even through khakis and his stupid collared shirt. The way his jaw clenches and his eyes narrow and apparently it’s enough for Gordon’s hand to drop to his pocket, where Dean knows he keeps his switchblade._ _

__He doesn’t know how much ugliness they were in danger of, but then Jo pops back out of the office, shoving the notebook into Cas’s face. And Cas looks at Dean, with a face that says clearly, _I have a question for you, you idiot._ _ _

__Dean tosses the magazine. Leans up against the counter next to him._ _

__“Do you know an Angela Naomi?”_ _

__“No. Why?’_ _

__Castiel just shakes his head, and it’s then that Dean notices— “Are you stoned?”_ _

__“Generally, yes.” A half-grin, then a sigh. “It’s been a long day.”_ _

__He isn’t sure if he should apologize or something, but then Cas is saying something about Balthazar being in the car and how “he really doesn’t want to come in, I’d better go before he hotwires my car and takes off,” and Dean is saying that they’re perfectly delightful company in the Roadhouse._ _

__But Cas is already out the door, hurrying back towards his Subaru._ _

__Dean wonders if he got blood on the seat._ _

__His mood isn’t improved when Sam calls to tell him that he’s going to hang out with some girl called Ruby for a bit. At least he calls. Although that’s probably because he knows that Dean would go on a potentially murderous investigation if he was even an hour late.__

At the end of the day, though, it’s Dean left on the sofa and bored out of his brain.

__He wonders if there’s someone around that he can beat up._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Sleeping Village](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kfSk4l5CWoo)


	5. Through the Never

His parents come home on Saturday.

He’s practicing with the knife when they arrive— spinning it in his hand, slashing in front of him, where he imagines a human figure: Raphael, who had threatened Balthazar yesterday at lunch; Naomi and her knowing smiles. He swings, he covers, he blocks an imaginary punch. He jumps because Dean is next to him and backing him up, Dean is in front of him and he is in trouble, and he tries, over and over again, to imagine stabbing a person. Nameless, faceless, weightless. He dives for another invisible enemy, wonders if that's what it feels like to be his mother, hears the front door open, and finishes the lunge next to his bed where he shoves the knife (sword, blade, thing) under his mattress.

Hopes he doesn’t rip his box spring, because that’d be unfortunate. 

Then there are the hugs and the ‘How’s it going?’ and the ‘Sell any books?’ and the ‘You wouldn’t believe the people.’

When Castiel’s phone goes off, he’s sitting at the table. Table that they had praised the cleanliness off, but that’s just because Dean cleaned it a few days ago. His father is bitching about the fans, as per usual. 

“I give them all this, all these deeper layers and symbolism and shit, and they give me essays on why my characters are secretly fucking. Some of them draw porn. _They give me porn._ ” 

“That’s nice, Dad,” Cas says, typing his log-in wrong twice before he remembers that he changed it. 

To BTSX, because if Naomi is going to get into his phone, he can at least make her uncomfortable. He’s eighteen, that doesn’t mean he’s mature. 

Yeah. 

_> >Jo_  
Ten min? 

“I have to go.” 

The statement brings equal blank looks. He feels a bit like he’s on some sort of trial here. His mother and father in front of him, two pillars of— of something, he isn’t sure what. Just knows that they’re blocking the light that’s trying to invade his eyes, that it’s far too bright out, that he isn’t sure how he forgot when they’d be coming home when he made plans. Maybe he didn't care.

“I’m going running with a friend.” 

Amelia smiles. “Gabriel? Have you finally joined cross country?” 

“No.” Castiel fidgets a little. “Friend. Jo. From the Roadhouse.” 

He’s mentioned volunteering there couple times, and Chuck had pressed him for every detail of his Urban Plunge, but he’s getting blank looks now and so he has to tell Jo that _it might be longer, Spanish Inq came home, save me?_

“Homeless teenagers,” Chuck remembers. His eyes light up as he leans forward. “Right? They must have the most incredible stories.” 

Castiel squirms a little more. “I guess.” 

“Tell me some!” 

He looks to his mother to help him, but no help is forthcoming. Just a ‘you haven’t seen us in three weeks, talk to us,’ type face. 

So he explains about Dean and Sam, Sam’s college goals, what Dean does for him and how their dad disappeared. He leaves out crucial details, but he’s surprised by how much he says. By how much of the story he _can_ share. 

“He sounds like a cool guy,” Chuck says, because that’s how he talks. 

“He sounds like a remarkable young man,” Amelia says, because that’s how _she_ talks. 

_More if you knew him_ Cas thinks, but he just nods. _More remarkable if you knew everything._ “I was going to meet Jo—” 

Chuck frowns, slides his fingers around on the table— either he’s drawing a mental diagram, trying to keep the cast of characters straight, or he’s completely tuned out and is figuring out which Diagon Ally bricks his characters are going to have to tap to free Lucifer, or whatever they’re doing this series. But it’s not that, because— “His mom works at the Roadhouse, right?” 

“So does she.” 

Wrong thing to say. “Joe’s a girl?” Amelia asks, voice now laced with suspicion, and Castiel groans. Because now they’re questioning him far more closely, clearly torn between _yay Castiel has friends that are girls this is normal_ and _oh no what if she steals our poor innocent son? What if our poor innocent son gets her pregnant? What if they hold hands without planning to marry?!_

_There were other times you could have been concerned,_ he thinks, not without bitterness. 

“She’s not, we’re not,” is all he manages to get out. “We’re just _friends_ , God.” 

Please let him get out before they _see_ Jo and realize that she’s a _pretty_ girl— 

Knock knock. 

Right. He’d asked her to save him. 

Amelia goes to answer the door, and Cas remembers, and in an attempt at distraction— “Hey Dad, when’d you work at Garrison?” 

Frown. “I didn’t _work_ there, I just student teach—”

“When?” it comes out more forceful than Cas had intended, and he bites the inside of his mouth. Goddammit. He can hear Jo, saying something to his mother, and it could be freaking years before he catches his dad alone again. 

A hand makes a halting trip through Chuck’s hair. “I dunno, couple years before you were born? Ninety-two, ninety-three?” 

“Did you know John Winchester and Mary— I think it was Campbell?” 

He’s getting a weird sort of look now. “Not personally,” he says. “They were sophomores I think. Mostly heard stuff from Joshua after I left-- we kept in contact, for a while. Why?”

“Ms. Naomi was saying weird things, is all,” Cas says. “What—” 

“Hey.” Jo shows up in the doorway, and Cas has to resist the urge to bang his head against the table. It’s totally normal to go running in short shorts and a tank top, but his parents are probably judging her. 

“Castiel, why don’t you go get your jogging clothes on?” Amelia smiles. “Jo, have a seat.” 

“I’m sorry,” Cas whispers as he passes her. She just grins. 

By the time he’s hidden the blade more carefully and pulled on some basketball shorts, Jo seems to have the entire situation under control. She’s leaning against the counter like it’s hers, like it’s the one at the Roadhouse, and is laughing with Chuck about crazy fans. 

“Look at it this way,” she says. “At least they aren’t hacking security cameras to see you, or trying to get bitten by vampires.” 

“Naw,” Chuck says, “but I wouldn’t be surprised if they try and kill people with weird dental problems.” 

“I kill people with weird dental problems,” she says. “Who knows what they might be introducing to the gene pool?” 

Chuck laughs again, and Amelia looks at Cas and nods, like, _you may kiss the bride._ Castiel rolls his eyes. 

“I’ll race you to Volunteer Park,” he says. 

“Nice to meet you,” she says, because apparently she has manners that are only let out around other peoples’ parents. 

Cas has to remember not to slam the front door. Sneezes in the sudden sunlight. 

“Sometimes I forget what having parents is like,” he says. "They're pulling this because they just got back, normally they don’t even notice when I leave.” 

She studies him for a minute. “Nah,” she says. “Oh, by the way, you’re in the clear. I told them I was dating a girl named Charlie.” They walk towards the crosswalk. “They didn’t care.” 

He isn’t sure if that’s a good or not, isn’t sure if he should be pissed at her for— what was she doing? Testing the waters for his coming out? Because there’s a big difference between your son being platonic friends with a lesbian and your son being willing to take it up the ass, and your son sucking some guy’s dick in his bedroom. But being mad on such a sunny day is hard, and so he hits the crosswalk button with the normal amount of force, waits patiently for it to change. 

“Are you actually dating a girl named Charlie?” _I didn’t know there were girls named Charlie._

She laughs. “Have you _met_ me? I do know a girl named Charlie, though. And she _is_ gay.” Pause. “She hasn’t been in in awhile, actually.” 

“Roadhouse?” 

“What, you think I have friends that have stable lives?” 

They end up walking to the park instead of running. Warming up, Castiel would say if asked, but really he just— enjoys it. It’s sunny and warm and everything hurts in a kind of satisfying way— or at least it does until Jo elbows him in a bruise. Then it hurts in a bad way. And then she lifts up his shirt when he grimaces. 

A whistle. 

“Jesus Christ, what’s happened to you?” 

Cas looks down. It is rather impressive, he thinks; bruises of different colors dotting his torso. “Fought,” he says, trying to inject as much _duh_ into the words as he can. With Gabriel, with Uriel, with Bathazar, and best of all, with Dean. When everyone got kicked out of the Roadhouse so that Ellen and Jo could set up beds, sometimes they’d find a quiet place and just go at each other. A park, an alley, the patch of dead grass behind Rufus's garage. Boodies colliding. Because they’re both good, they’re equal, and the winner could just as easily have been decided by a coin toss. Because it gives Cas a rush that he can’t get from drugs, because the pain of the bruises is a good pain. 

“Obviously. Fuck, though. If I hadn’t known for a fact that your parents just got back, I’d call CPS.” When Castiel doesn’t answer, she just sighs. “C’mon. Race?” 

They’ve reached the entrance to the park, winding trails and grassy fields spread out for their pleasure. And then Cas is running, and life is good. His parents are home and his mom is okay right now and there’s soft dirt scuffing under his feet. Jo’s breathing in his ear as he pulls just a little bit ahead, because he’s gotten faster and so has she, he’s gotten better at fighting and he’s just _better, better, better._ Can get high on motion in a way he’d been having so much trouble doing, and it’s great, it’s wonderful, it’s beautiful. 

They run. 

Up the slope, to more level ground, then forward, forward, flinging themselves into it. Elbows knock and Jo is a little bit ahead now and Castiel doesn’t _mean_ to trip her, exactly, but maybe his foot gets a little tangled with hers and maybe they end up in a heap on the ground. 

_Wham._ His back hits earth, and he tries to sit up a bit, but then Jo is shoving him. They scuffle for a moment, and end up lying in the middle of the trail. They watch the sky. 

Jo starts to laugh. 

“What?” 

“If anyone ever asks you if you’re gay—” she snorts a few times, then— “We literally just rolled in the dirt.”

“I think the innuendo is ‘roll in the hay,’” Cas says. He’s also not convinced he’s gay. He likes men, he’s attracted to men, but it doesn’t— maybe he’s, one of the other ones. There’re lots of sexualities, right? He should Google that when he gets home. 

“Whatever.” They lie there for another minute. Above them, a kite flickers through the treetops— back and forth, back and forth. Grass waves in the breeze. The sun turns the sky into a mosaic. 

A booted foot lowers itself onto Cas’s face. 

He reaches up, grabs it. Braces his elbows into the ground so he can hold on, keep its owner from moving. Jo sits up slowly, and there’s the sound of a skirmish, but Cas can’t see it through the shoe-leather. 

“Hey, Jo,” he says, with too much forced carelessness. “The guy trying to mess up my face— does the dude look like a lady?” 

“A bit.” 

Cas had known it was Raphael— that footprint has made its way into times into his dreams before, but the opportunity was too good. He jerks the foot forward, tries to throw the boy off balance. Raph tips sideways, and Cas hopes he’s flapping around like a penguin, trying to stay upright. But he can’t really see, because he’s trying to untangle himself. And then there are hands, and he’s lashing out, twisting away, and there are bodies moving and he kicks and there’s a grunt and Jo yanks him to his feet. 

Flanking Raphael are Bub and Ion. Cas eyes them. Three to two— really only workable if you have a gun. 

He does not have a gun. 

“Hunter,” Bub says, possibly trying to distract from the way Raphael is awkwardly trying to get to his feet. Points one finger at Jo’s tank top— at least he’s pointing to the logo and not her breasts, Cas thinks absently. “Are they really as easy over there as they say?” 

She gasps. Leans back, hand on her chest. “How dare you question mine honor!”

It takes Raphael a moment to regroup. To straighten up and get his evil glare on. “Get the fuck out of my way, Novak.” 

Cas looks at Jo. 

Jo looks at Cas. 

“Say please.” Cas tilts his head sideways, because he knows that that annoys the fuck out of people. “These are the ones I was telling you about, Jo. They’re the ones that try and be the most badass by following the most rules.” It’s stupid, and he knows it, to challenge Raphael and the others without his crew to back him up— but fuck it. Maybe he hasn’t fought a real opponent recently, wants to see if he’s gotten better, wants the thrill of knowing that he’s _not_ only going to hit under the neckline, that he really wants to— 

“Hey, you.” Ion points at Jo with his chin. “Give me a hand job and we won’t beat your boyfriend to a pulp.”

Jo’s fingers weave together, as she cracks her knuckles. Appears to consider for a moment. 

“Nah,” she says. “I work in a CDC-certified kitchen. And I don’t have enough Purell to make it safe.” 

He doesn’t seem to know what she meant, but it doesn’t matter, because Raphael moves a little bit. Like he’s going to attack. After all, you can’t just sit when your manliness and badassery have been questioned. And when he moves, the others are going to follow. 

And it’s not like they couldn’t just walk around Cas and Jo, if they really wanted to be on their way. 

The two sides glare at each other for a minute. 

There’s something in the air. Pride and rivalries and maybe what Jo calls testosterone poisoning but could just be plain, old-fashioned hatred. 

Then Jo extends a hand. “I’m Joanna,” she says. 

A few more minutes of staring. 

A crow caws. 

A car drives by, down on the road, bass turned up to illegal levels. 

Looking slightly confused, Bub reaches out to shake it— and then Jo has grabbed his wrist, twisted, yanked it around until he’s forced to face the others with one arm bent behind his back. 

“Wanna keep running, Cas?” 

A fight, in the daylight, in a public park is probably a bad idea, now that he thinks about it. 

Jo kicks Bub forward and then they run for their lives. 

Down one trail, up another. Not getting very far but it’s the thought that counts. Heavy breathing and it’s just a little more exhilarating this way, when there really is something behind them. Except—

“I don’t think they’re following us,” Castiel says as they reach the greenhouse. He stops to scratch at his leg. 

Jo shrugs. “Let ‘em. What can they do to us, anyway?” 

“To you? Nothing. I probably shouldn’t go anywhere alone, though.” 

“Eh, you had him.” 

They walk, progressively slower in a parody of a warm-down until just flopping on a grassy hill. It overlooks a pond, has a view of the Space Needle a ways away— it’s barely a pinprick, but that doesn’t stop the group of tourists behind them from taking photos. Cas rolls down a little bit, trying to get out of their landscape. 

“I mean, they could go around telling everyone we were fucking,” he says after a second. 

“This is high school, dude. It’d probably just get you street cred.” 

“Yeah. Everyone wants to date a femme fatale.” 

Jo flips onto her stomach. Runs her hand through her hair a few times, in a vague sort of attempt to brush out the grass and dirt. A couple of the photographers are nodding at them, laughing a little, and “We’re not a couple,” Cas says, just loud enough that they could hear if they were really paying attention. He wouldn’t care, except he does care, because he’s not using Jo as a closet, he’s _not_. “I’m more into guys, and so she’s pretending to be gay to cover me.” 

One of the guys offers them a peace sign. “Rock on.” 

That sends Jo into another round of laughter. “Yeah, he only has the hots for Dean Winchester,” she says, at a normal volume. For Castiel’s ears only. 

Blink. Blink. “What?” Cas flushes a bit. “I do not— have the hots—” the phrase sounds odd on his tongue— “for Dean.” 

A few more blinks. 

“Castiel,” Jo says slowly. “ _Everybody_ has the hots for Dean Winchester at some point or another. Even straight guys and lesbians. It’s just an accepted fact.” 

Cas’s stomach is doing something funny, but he doesn’t want to identify it. “Everyone?” 

“At first, I mean. It usually stops when they get to know him.” 

This conversation has gone a very weird way, and Cas sits up so that he can check to make sure that Raphael & Co aren’t about to pop in for a timely rematch. “Even you?” 

“Are you kidding? Five minutes, at least.” 

“Even Bobby?” 

“Ew!” 

He gets a handful of grass in his face. He could push her over, probably, but it seems like a lot of effort all of a sudden. Castiel lies back down, and hopes that the grass stains will come out of his shirt. What gives grass a right to stain, anyway? 

“I’ll be sure to tell Dean that he gets less attractive by the minute.” 

“He doesn’t get _less_ attractive,” Jo says. “People just stop being _attracted_. Like, you get to know him, and then it’s like a friendzone or something. Familyzone. You see that he’s conventionally good looking but he’s almost your family so you’re not—” 

“I find it hard to believe that he inspires familial urges in everyone.”

“Well, maybe that was just me. Other people probably have other reasons.” 

“You don’t make sense,” Cas says, thinking about how nice it would be if his attraction to Dean is just a phase. If he can join his family— he can’t be Balth and Gabe and Uriel, those are his brothers, but Dean could be a close cousin, maybe— and have nothing be complicated. 

But he has a bad feeling about the whole thing. 

Above them, the kite keeps flying. 

Castiel closes his eyes.

II.  
Not for the first time, Dean considers taking up smoking. 

It’s not that he can afford it, it’s not like he _wants_ to get whateverall lung problems he sees on the billboards— although if he’s honest with himself he doesn’t expect to live long enough for that to be a problem— and it’s not like he’s trying to fit in anywhere. It’s the pause in conversation that he wants. A perfectly respectable reason not to answer someone. 

“You know Gordon’s more worried about revenge,” is what Benny had said. And Dean has to wait to let an imaginary ash drop. Set the pavement below him on fire, because it’s his imagination and he can do what he wants. 

“Yeah.” 

In reality, of course, he just swings his foot backward and kicks the chain-link fence. It rattles, causing a couple parents on the school playground to give them cranky looks. “Digos aren’t the ones that killed his uncle, though.” 

“No, it was the vamps. ‘Snot the point, though.” 

Dean grimaces. “I know.” 

“That’s why he lost his nuts at you.” 

“Benny.” Dean turns. “It was two weeks ago, man. And I knew he was bullshitting at the time. I got it. Family killed, revenge, tremble before all who stand in his way.” 

“Well, it took _me_ a bit,” Benny says. “I might need to avoid him for awhile. Find some other place to sleep.” 

The bell screams, and kids’ voices rise, and it takes a moment for Dean to realize that nobody’s actually in trouble. The front doors burst open like a dam is breaking and backpacks and bobbing heads stream out, scattering once they hit the sidewalk. “You were in a gang?” 

Snort. “Ever wonder how a Louisiana cracker ended up in Seattle? You don’t just leave a gang, man.” 

Actually, Dean’s pretty sure you can— at least in some cases— but that’s beside the point. “I thought you followed your girlfriend.” 

“Also a factor. A lot of things happened. But I was going for a story with a moral, Dean, one you could relate to an’ shit. Don’t fuck it up.” 

“Sorry, man.” He has to laugh a little, though. “What was the relatable moral?” 

“I don’t even remember now.” 

It’s an afternoon, it’ll still be light for awhile. But it’s a dark light, painted in dull grays and blacks. Dean looks up at the sky a couple times, as though he knows which clouds bring rain and which ones are just normal grayscale Seattle days. He doesn’t. But it’s early March, and he wants to get somewhere with a roof in case of downpour, because the odds are usually in the fifties. 

“So.” Benny kicks the fence again. _Clang. _This time they can’t hear it over the running kids. “You sure about Castiel?”__

___It’s been two weeks._ “Christ, Benny, how many times—” _ _

__“I just don’ get it. You don’ have a history with him or nuthin’?”_ _

__Fists and knees, huge grins and an unnerving amount of laughter. Dean shrugs. “I do now.”_ _

__“Fair ‘nuff.”_ _

__A little boy falls from a swing. Dean watches his face, can time to the second when he’s going to blow— this kid looks almost exactly like Sammy had then. Sure enough, his face is turning red, his mouth is opening._ _

__“Adam!”_ _

__But his mother is there, rescuing him. Pulling him back into a fortress made of puffy North Face jacket, and all is well. Dean smiles, and then turns back to the dramatically lessened flow of middle-schoolers._ _

__“Where the fuck is he?”_ _

__“This the only door?” Benny asks._ _

__“He said he’d meet me here.”_ _

__They look at each other._ _

__“You don’t have to hang around, you know,” Dean says. “If you have a line to get in or something.”_ _

__Benny considers. “I’ll hang out for a few more minutes. Got nowhere to be. If it gets near shelter call, though, you’re on your own.”_ _

__“Fair enough,” Dean echoes._ _

__He wishes again for a cigarette._ _

__The sky is getting at least four times more menacing, the hour, thirty minutes later, when Benny abandons him for higher ground— “Sorry, brother,”/“It’s cool.”/“Shouldn’t you be going searching through the school?”/”Nah, I might miss him.” And then Dean is alone by the fence._ _

__He advances to the slat bench._ _

__There’s no kids on the playground now. Not when the wrath of Thor looks like it’s about to open above them._ _

__Well, maybe not the wrath of Thor. Maybe a drizzle. But it doesn’t really matter, because again, Dean’s imagination. He’s allowed to dramatize whatever he wants._ _

__He doesn’t have a watch or a phone, doesn’t know how much time has passed. He’s gotten good at disappearing. At studying a wall or a tree and letting his mind wander off— rehashing stories and movies, plotting a plan of attack, figuring out the best place to score tricks, rewinding his and Castiel's last fight and entering a fantasy in which he had left more bruises, this time with his teeth, mentally counting their money, mapping a road trip and taking apart the Impala piece by piece— and so when Sam finally decides to put in a personal appearance, he doesn’t know how long it’s been since Benny left._ _

__Sam's got two other kids with him— a boy Dean knows to be Brady and a dark haired girl who must be Ruby. She’s hot, and then Dean remembers that she’s in eighth grade, and he feels as though he should take a shower or something._ _

__“Hey,” he says to her. “You have the time?”_ _

__She looks at him like he’s making a joke, until he raises his eyebrows, like, _well?_ and she pulls out her phone. _ _

__“Four-thirty.”_ _

__Dean looks at Sam._ _

__Sam looks at Dean._ _

__Dean looks at Sam._ _

__And it’s just that he’s been trained to notice these things, that he’s spent the last hour, apparently, pondering the weather. Certainly enough time to notice that it’s slightly dark out, and he definitely knows that dark means larger pupils._ _

__It could be nothing, but Dean has always been reasonably proud of his instincts._ _

__Sam scratches his shoulder. Looks at Dean, and the smile slides slowly off his face._ _

__Dean raises an eyebrow._ _

__Busted._ _

__“Nice to meet you,” he says to must-be-Ruby. “We gotta go.” He beams, claps Sam on the back, and setters him towards the sidewalk._ _

__“’M sorry I was so late,” Sam says. “I—”_ _

__Dean waits only until they’re around the corner before stopping. Nearly tripping over a dachshund and its owner. Once they're gone, he spins Sam around— his eyes all hazel, barely a dot in there, and “What the _fuck_ , man?!” _ _

__Sam blinks. “What?”_ _

__“You on smack?”_ _

__His eyes widen, and the innocent look is ruined by his pupil deficit. Dean grabs his arm, yanks up the flannel sleeve. And Jesus Christ, there’s not just one track mark on there. Jesus _Christ_. Dean shoves Sam away from him, lets him hit someone's hedge. Doesn’t feel bad when Sam winces, he _doesn’t_. _ _

__“You were fucking shooting up in _the school?_ ” _ _

__Sam looks down. Then his shoulders square, and he’s looking back at Dean again. “Like you never got high on the roof when you went here,” he says. “You don’t have a— moral high ground, Dean.” The slowness of his speech, different from Sammy’s usual rapid-fire so-get-this, makes Dean want to scream._ _

__But he has to laugh. He can’t look away from his brother for fear he might— disappear, or something, but he wants to. He takes a drag on his imaginary cigarette. “God, please tell me you aren’t paying her for it yet.”_ _

__Hands in pockets, head bowed once again. “Course not. I’m not stupid.”_ _

__“Yeah?”_ _

__First they share with you, to get a taste for it. Then, after awhile, it’s “I can’t afford to just give it to you, I’m so sorry.” The price gradually increases, all with sympathy, and you understand why you can't have it for free, nothing is free, and the next thing you know you’re— stealing, sucking cock, giving up on food, yeah, Dean’s seen it happen, over and over. He’d told Sam about that, over and over, told them the strategies people use and how to stay away, and it’s a little scary to think about what else Sam might have ignored._ _

__The brother in question is tugging on his sleeves. Fidgeting. “So—”_ _

__If Dean picked up on his drugged-up state in ten seconds, it won’t take Ellen more than five minutes. “We can’t go to the Roadhouse,” he says. He’d been intending on making it sound angrier, but he’s afraid that he just comes out sounding resigned. “Not like that. Idiot.”_ _

__“Sorry,” Sam mumbles. They don’t say anything the rest of the way to the bus stop. Not until they’ve gotten on, sacrificed their quarters, settled in the back._ _

__“We can check St. Anthony’s,” Dean says. “They don’t make you pass a gay test to get in, right?”_ _

__A snort. “You’d pass.”_ _

__Dean doesn’t even have the energy to glare at him. “Do you understand how much I’m doing to keep you in school?” The question is rhetorical. “You could have a life, Sam. Don’t fuck it up. Jesus.”_ _

__Sam sits, quiet and grouchy for the rest of his lecture. Scowls at all the people that get on the bus, banging his old sneakers against the seat like a bratty five-year-old. Nods through ‘you could have a future,’ and sulks through ‘Ruby is screwing you over.’_ _

__“This is dumb shit,” is Dean’s poetic conclusion. “Fucking dumb, Sam.”_ _

__Sam snorts. “I’ve seen you, drunk and high and stoned and tripping so bad you couldn’t take a shit.”_ _

__Not some of his finest moments. “The whole point is that you don’t end up like me." He is so tired.. “I’m trying to get you _out_ , dammit, trying to get you an actual life. Get good grades and you’ll get a full ride somewhere and—” _ _

__“You’re full of shit.” They’re slow and drugged-out words, and it makes Dean want to slap his brother even more. _You don’t even know how much it takes to keep you in school, to get you clothes and lunch money and keep people from getting suspicious._ “You’re so full of shit,” Sam repeats. Scratches his nose. “Don’t take your insecurities out on me, I can’t live for you.” _ _

__He has to clench a fist to keep from slapping him. “You can _live._ You think this is any kind of life, Sam? You want to bounce from shelter to shelter until you die of exposure, you think that’s what Mom and Dad wanted for you?” _ _

__Sam giggles. But Dean can see the tears in his eyes. “I used to believe you, when you said that Dad was sending us money. Dad doesn’t want any kind of life for us, Dean, Dad _doesn’t want us._ ” _ _

___Do not hit your little brother. Do not hit your little brother._ “Don’t ever say that,” Dean snaps. “Don’t ever.” John loves them. He never had to say it, Dean just _knew._ And, _I'm proud of you,_ was the last thing he had said to Dean, and he holds those words close to his heart._ _

__“Anyway,” Sam says. “It’s good enough for you, right. You’re not trying to get anywhere.”_ _

__The first raindrops hit the bus window. Distorting the buildings and people on the street. “I’m trying to get _you_ — it’s my job to worry about me, Sam, and my job to worry about you. Your job is to not _fuck up_ , you think you can do that?” _ _

__“What are you going to do? What are you going to do when you get older, Dean?”_ _

__The anger isn’t in his brother’s voice anymore. It’s not confrontational— it’s curious, sad, and that hurts Dean even more. _I’m so sorry, Sammy. I’m so sorry._ “I’m going to get my GED—” _which I can’t do when I sit around waiting for your sorry ass_ — “and I’ll figure it out. I can’t worry about that right now.” He has to make it through each night first. Each day of _where are we going to sleep_ and _what does Sammy need_ and _is everyone okay._ A little over a year ago, they’d had their dad to sort of help, and he doesn’t know where the fuck he’s going to be next year. _ _

__Getting old isn’t something he’s considered._ _

__Once Sam can stand on his own, gotten through college, whatever… Dean’s always sort of imagined dying. Not on purpose, of course. But someday he’s going to lose the wrong fight, attack the wrong gang, something’s always going to happen. Ronnie had been proof of that, right? He's not going to be needed, and so he'll fade away. There’s no… Dean shakes his head. Focuses on the window. It doesn’t matter. He can’t think about that, or he’ll go insane. Right now he needs to find somewhere to sleep._ _

__St. Anthony’s, though, is not helpful. They don’t ask if Sam and Dean find Tom Cruise attractive, just say that they had already filled up their fifteen beds. “Do you want me to call and see if there’s space at the men’s shelter on third?”_ _

__Dean smiles, and curses the rain for driving people in earlier. It can’t be later than five. “That’d be great.”_ _

__The men’s shelter on third avenue isn’t full yet, but they can’t save spaces either. The rain is coming down harder when they catch the next bus, and with the ten minute wait and they’re about twenty minutes away and half an hour in this weather— there’s not much hope._ _

__Sure enough, all they get at Gospel Mission are more sympathetic looks._ _

__And then it’s back on the bus, it’s back around and around and around. And— and, he hates himself, but he knows they do still have an option. And he hates himself, and right now he hates Sammy, because it’s his fault, goddammit, it’s his fault._ _

__“Get on the twelve,” he says._ _

__Sam looks up at him. Wet bangs hanging in his face, tracing lines of water across his nose. “What?”_ _

__“We’re going to Cap Hill. I know where we can stay.”_ _

__Normally he’d say sleep on the bus, but they’d wake up God knows where and Sam is not going to miss school. Is not._ _

__So there’s just the one stone left._ _

__Granted, he hadn’t gotten the best view of the neighborhood that night he came tearing through with Cas, when he was too distracted worrying that the driver was going to crash. And once they get off the bus— a “good evening, thank you” getting nothing more than a whisper from the driver, a young blonde with too much mascara who looks as though she hates this bus and everyone on it, because really, who wants to be a bus driver— it’s a few more blocks of turning and rain._ _

__“Do you know where we’re going?” Sam asks._ _

__“Yes.”_ _

__Step, step, splash. He hopes the watertight backpacks hold._ _

__Step, step, splash._ _

__Splash, splash, splash._ _

__“Dean—”_ _

__“Shut up, Sammy.”_ _

__Splash. Splash. Houses are getting smaller, so they must be getting closer, right?_ _

__“I’m sorry.”_ _

__“Shut _up_ , Sam.” _ _

__He can’t hear that right now. They pass another house. A car comes around the corner, and maybe it’s Cas’s, and Dean looks up—_ _

__Only to get splashed in the face, curtain of water falling over them._ _

__“Fuck.”_ _

__“I’m sorr—”_ _

__“Shut _up_ , Sam.” _ _

__Here. He’s pretty sure it’s here. Because, yes, there’s the house, he recognizes the house. So he marches his brother towards the door._ _

__Makes up a list of excuses, in case Castiel’s parents are home, in case someone else answers. Because he doesn’t think anyone who goes on about Christian values so much in his interview would turn away a soggy Sammy, but he doesn’t want to— to—_ _

__Still, he knocks._ _

__Ten agonizing seconds. Sam scratches his nose, and then hauls his backpack up over his head. Like it’ll keep him any dryer. What kind of house doesn’t have an overhang?_ _

__The door opens._ _

__And there’s Cas._ _

__Dean has never seen him in his full Garrison uniform in ages— button-up polo, dress pants. It’s a weird sort of reminder of where he lives, how he lives, the distance between them, and he wants to pull away but Cas is already smiling— “Dean!”— and opening the door farther, waving them inside._ _

__His eyes are a question. Dean shakes his head once, and then nods to his brother._ _

__“You must be Sam,” Cas says. ._ _

__Sam nods. Stares out at this new person through heroin-shrunk pupils, and Dean tries not to be embarrassed. Really, he’s lost all right to that feeling. He shouldn’t have shame anymore, either._ _

__He tries to send telepathic messages to Castiel— _look up, look at me, look at me, I need to talk to you.__ _

__“Have you eaten?” Cas asks._ _

__Sam opens his mouth, and Dean kicks him. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, we’re fine.” _Look at me._ _ _

__Cas looks._ _

__“Sam, why don’t you go dry off?” He says carefully. “The bathroom is that door there.”_ _

__Sam’s already halfway there when pill bottles and codeine flash through Dean’s memory— broken fragments of a broken world— but he doesn’t say anything._ _

__“What’s going on, Dean?” Cas pulls back into the empty doorway to the kitchen. And Dean focuses one everything else: on the drawing of two boys hanging on the wall, done with crayon. Maybe Cas’s, maybe not— the photograph of definitely-Cas, maybe ten, standing with three other boys (weasel face, a black kid who must be Uriel although there’s a bucket on his face so it’s hard to tell…)_ _

__“Dean,” Cas says, a little louder. Dean turns. “What’s. Going on?”_ _

__Breathe. “Sam just needed to use the bathroom,” he blurts. “We’ll go—”_ _

__“Liar.” Cas takes his arm, drags him towards another door— but it’s just a closet, and Castiel pulls out a towel. Old towel, threads showing, but all the others in there look the same. “Here,” he says. “You have dry clothes?”_ _

__He shouldn’t do this, but Dean accepts it, thinking that he’ll just wash it later. Because, God, he can’t accept this, it was wrong of him to even come—_ _

__“I’ll find some way to pay you back,” he says. “I promise.”_ _

__“It’s fine. So do you have clothes?”_ _

__“Yeah.”_ _

__Cas waves him towards what must be his room. It’s another side of Cas that Dean hasn’t seen, and he's a little wary as he approaches. But it's not like it's the fucking Rubicon._ _

The room is smallish, maybe two arm-lengths wide, with a bed taking up a large chunk of the space. There’s a dresser, but Dean can’t imagine that there’s much in it, because there are two laundry baskets full of clean clothes stacked next to it. Books, alphabetized by author’s last name. What must be a complete series of Carver Edlund’s _Supernatural_ s acting as a door jamb. 

__He rubs at his hair with the towel, then hesitates a moment before peeling his shirt off. But it’s wet, soaked, and gets tangled around his head for a moment before he can remove it. And then he has to try and dry his torso, and—_ _

__Cas isn’t looking at him, but the longer Dean looks at him not looking, the redder the other’s cheeks get._ _

__Huh._ _

_I’ll make it up to you,_ Dean thinks, before wedging his wet shirt in between his knees and digging around in his backpack for another one. It’s dirty, but at least it’s dry. 

__“Everywhere was full,” he says. “St. Anthony’s, Gospel. And it was just raining so hard that—”_ _

__He stops._ _

__“Sam,” Cas says, slowly. He looks at Dean, but since Dean is looking back, he studies the wall a little more carefully._ _

___Definitely red._ _ _

__Dean relaxes a bit._ _

__Because if Cas wants him, then that means that Dean can make them equal again. Can stop owing._ _

__“Sam is—”_ _

__Don’t let him finish that sentence, because it doesn’t sound like it’s going to be a good one. “Is there anywhere I can leave this?” Dean holds up his wet flannel._ _

__“Yeah. Once Sam gets out of the bathroom, we can dump it in there.”_ _

__Nod._ _

__“You know Sam’s been shooting up?”_ _

__God, is it that obvious? Apparently, and thank God they didn’t go to the Roadhouse, but what if everyone else knew, what if everyone at school knows, what if— Dean grimaces. “Yeah,” he says. “It’s why we couldn’t go to Ellen’s. This girl, Ruby— she—” he bites down on his tongue. Cas doesn’t need to hear that, and anyway, “Can I ask you something?”_ _

__“Of course.”_ _

__Cas wedges himself a little more firmly, a little more casually in the doorway, a diagonal slash preventing Dean from leaving. From calling this all a stupid idea and taking off. He takes a deep breath. “In your bathroom… I saw—”_ _

__Elbows, knees, locking into place. Arms pulling close to the body; a defensive stance, and Dean isn’t sure if he should be preparing for a fight or not. But apparently not, because— “You think Sam would—”_ _

__“Steal them? He knows better.” _I thought._ Dean doesn’t know what his brother would do, because this morning he would have sworn up and down that he was too smart for hardcore drugs. Why can’t he just eat pot brownies like everyone else? “Cas, do you—” _ _

__Castiel is looking at him again, now. Maybe Dean should have left his shirt off, because this would be far less awkward if they didn’t have to look at each other. “Pop codeine? Adderall? Amphetamines? Sometimes.”_ _

__Dean breaks eye contact first._ _

__“Sam have homework?”_ _

__Shrug. This room is too small, too close, to intimate. Too impersonal._ _

__“I’ll go get you guys some food,” Cas mutters. Pushes himself into a standing position, turns towards the kitchen. “I haven’t eaten yet.”_ _

__“I thought your parents were back by now,” Dean says, following— you could literally jump from room to room in this house— because they’re in danger of another awkward silence._ _

__Castiel’s back stays to him as he opens the fridge. “They are,” he says. “I mean, they were. They’re in Spokane tonight, though. Dad gave a seminar at Gonzaga, and it was too far to drive there and back in one day.”_ _

__“Why’d your mom go?”_ _

__Door closes. Cas throws some lunch meat down onto the counter. “He.... they basically have to babysit each other, and... I don’t really think she wants to be home with me.”_ _

Dean wants to say that she does, of course she does, without a doubt, but he knows that isn’t always true. And Cas looks fine. Cas _is_ fine. Independent, and that’s a quality Dean can admire. He’s fighting with one of those plastic traps they put on bread to keep you from snacking too much— or at least, that’s what Dean is convinced they’re for, and he quickly moves to help. Searches through the pantry and comes out with peanut butter. He sees some linguine, and he wonders if he should offer to make it, as an— olive branch or something, what with the first time they talked being over a vat of pasta, but that thought disturbs him. He doesn’t bother to figure out why. 

__“You think they’d mind? Us being here?”_ _

__“Nah.” As if sensing how badly needs to help, Cas slows down. Has Dean peanut-butter a sandwich for Sam, because the kid is far pickier than he has a right to be. “My dad would probably just ask you for your entire life story. He already thinks you’re the shit.”_ _

__Huh. “What’d you tell him about me?”_ _

__“Not that you’re the shit. How long does it take Sam to shower?”_ _

__“He’s a princess,” Dean says. Sam needed the shower anyway, though. Hopefully it’ll help him come down faster._ _

__Castiel just grins._ _

__Sam decides to grace them again with his presence, and before Dean can even blink he’s sitting at a table with Sam and Castiel and eating sandwiches and Sam and Cas are talking about a teacher that had transferred from Cas’s middle school to Sam’s and then Cas has Sam sitting at the kitchen table with _To Kill a Mockingbird_ and NPR on far too loudly for something that’s not music. _ _

__Dean sits on the couch._ _

__Cas sits next to him, and they listen for a moment to the story of a woman who is still trying to clean up New Orleans._ _

__“Don’t you have stuff to do?” Dean asks, after a couple minutes._ _

__He gets a flicker of a grin. “Second semester senior, remember?” his face drops, and he sighs. Nods towards Sam, and then to his room. Message, loud and clear— Dean follows him. And then closes the door, for good measure._ _

__“Where do you want to sleep?” Cas asks. “We have the sofa, Anna’s bed, Mom and Dad’s—”_ _

__Dean pulls a face. He’s not sleeping in Cas’s sister’s bed, college or no college._ _

__“I’ll talk the armchair,” He says. “I’ll be fine.”_ _

__“Because you can take mine, I can sleep in Anna’s—”_ _

__“Really.”_ _

__“Dean—”_ _

__But this is his chance, and he’s not going to waste it worrying about where he should sleep. Christopher O’Riley is blabbering in the main room, Sam goes deaf when he’s in a book, and Dean takes a step forward._ _

__Castiel picks up immediately on his change of tone, and he freezes. Moves back. Hits windowsill, and he shifts a little to one side. “Dean— what—”_ _

__Half a step, and then Dean is in front of him._ _

__He drops to his knees. Wet denim on carpet. Lightly touches Castiel’s hips, pushes them back against the wall._ _

__“Let me,” he whispers. Presses his nose into Cas’s shirt, then nudges it up so that he can slip an open-mouthed kiss against his hipbone. “Let me,” he says again. “Please.”_ _

__He decides that the sound coming from Cas’s mouth is a go order, so he lowers his head. Breathes against Cas’s crotch for a moment before letting his teeth find the button on his dress pants, working it open, then on to the zipper. Gently pulling it open, and Cas is halfway hard, and fuck, yeah, Dean can work with this. He shoves the briefs out of the way, to Cas’s knees, where they lock him in place. He can’t help but take a second to appreciate the image— Wide blue eyes, fluttering stomach._ _

__And Dean goes down._ _

Spreads his lips around Castiel’s head. Slides his tongue around the edge— once, twice. Eye contact again, and Cas groans a bit. Head falling back against the wall. Hips straining forward, but Dean strengthens his hold. _Stay still._

__He slides down a little farther, then a little farther, taking a deep breath before going all the way down. He hums a little, experiments. Tries to figure out what Cas likes._ _

__Anything for him to make that sound again._ _

__God. The other boy is almost pretty like this, knuckles white as he holds himself up on the windowsill. Arm trembling._ _

__Dean smiles a bit. And swallows. And he’s never really liked deep throating, but it’s alarming how much he likes watching Cas fall apart. He’s worried that he’s going to come in his pants—_ _

__He gets his next gasp when he swallows again, teeth accidentally brushing skin._ _

__And the fact that Cas apparently likes it rougher is way hotter than it should be, so he rubs his teeth gently along the other boy’s shaft, one more time, and can’t stop from groaning a little himself. Pulls back, and maybe in a minute he’ll let Cas fuck his face, but first he’s mouthing at balls and then swallowing again. Hips are pushing against his hands, desperate, and so Dean lets go. Lets Cas jerk forward, and Dean goes with it. Feels his mouth stretch a little, but it’s okay. It’s okay._ _

__“Castiel,” he says. There’s no way he can be understood, of course— it’s the throat motion that does it, the way his teeth move up a little bit._ _

__And then Cas curls away from the wall, head tipping back, mouth open in a silent scream._ _

__Dean swallows it._ _

__He’d have charged a hundred bucks for that on the street. But it’s weirdly worth it, now, pulling away and watching Cas’s knees fall without Dean’s support. He sinks slowly to the floor, gasping. Hands leaving sweaty trails on the wall._ _

___Now we’re equal,_ Dean thinks. _Now we’re equal.__ _

__He sleeps under the winged blanket again._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Through the Never](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WTmap-nc9_A)


	6. Junior's Eyes

I.  
It’s hard to talk to someone when all you can imagine is them fucking you against the nearest surface. Hard to accept a bowl of cereal when you’re seeing hands around his dick, yours, maybe him against a table, spreading his legs— _please, let me_ — 

Yeah. 

This sucks. 

_Sucks._ And that’s a whole new set of memories, (Dean's mouth, Dean's lips, stars everywhere,) because they’re _memories._ Not fantasy. But they’re not talking about it, Cas figures that out right off. Didn’t happen. He doesn’t know if Dean was trying to distract him, or just horny, or what— but they’re in that space of We’re Not Supposed To Talk About It, and so Cas doesn’t. 

He sits at the table. 

He eats cornflakes, which have to be the most boring cereal ever invented. 

He makes a mental note to get something more interesting. 

He doesn’t picture Dean on his knees. 

He chews, he swallows. 

Sam. He thinks of Sam, and Sam’s problems, and maybe that’s something he can do something about. As much as one can do when throwing words at a complex problem, trying to create illusions as a barrier against reality. 

He insists that Dean go and take a shower. 

Actually, he phrases it as a question: ‘could you please take a shower, I don’t want Jo to give me crap for letting you walk out of here smelling funny.’ But then Dean goes, and that particular objective is achieved (with the unfortunate side-effect of imagining Dean in the shower.’) 

(Goddammit.)

He doesn’t know what he’d been planning to do. He’s only ever known Sam from a distance. To say ‘hi’ and ‘have you seen your brother.’ 

So this is stupid. Cornflakes aren’t enough. Eggs they need eggs. Iron, protein, and an excuse to look away. 

“Sam,” he says, very slowly. 

Sam looks at him. Morning covers his face. “Yeah?” 

Break eggs, put in frying pan. Cas doesn’t know how to go about doing this. 

“How’re you feeling?” 

“Fine.” 

Pause. 

The eggs hiss and bubble on the stove. “You know how hard Dean’s trying, right?” 

“Yeah.” Sam hides behind Harper Lee. “You know that I already got a Talk from Dean.” 

Eggs curdling and glooping together and he’s pretty sure that this doesn’t look right. Cas isn’t hungry anymore, anyway. 

“Yeah. I’m not trying to give you a talk.” He gives up on the omelet and opts for more cornflakes instead, using one percent instead of fat free milk because that’s just how he rolls. 

He’s so not qualified for this. 

“Heroin—”

“I _know,_ ” Sam says. He plasters a smile across his face. “It’s not like I’m addicted or anything, it was just for fun. I’ll just stop." 

Cas doesn’t have any ground to argue with that, he doesn’t know what’s real, what Sam’s done, so he shrugs. 

“Dean wants me to go to Garrison.” The information is volunteered, unsolicited, and thus important. 

Huh. “Your parents went there.” 

“Yeah, that’s why. He wants me to go because Dad wanted us to go. He still wants to— Dean still wants what Dad wants. He still thinks Dad is coming back and is going to look at me in one of those polos and go ‘good job, son.’” 

Cas can identify, and he tries to think of a good response while he chews. “What do you think?” 

“I think he’s dead.” Information is so much freer from Sam than it is from Dean, and Cas isn’t sure why. Maybe it’s because he’s someone Sam doesn’t know very well. Maybe he’s hoping that Cas will tell Dean so that he doesn’t have to. Maybe he just needs to bitch. “He’s dead, or he got some other woman pregnant.” A sulky, teenage stab at a cornflake. 

“My dad wrote a series of books about two brothers looking for their father,” Cas says. 

“Do they find him?” 

“Yes.” He hesitates. “He spent all his time talking about it— my dad, talking about the books, I mean— he’s still writing this series. For a long time, I thought he’d made up fake sons to replace me, because reality wasn’t good enough.” _Because I’m not an angel._

Sam looks at him. “And what do you think now?” 

“That he lives in a fantasy world and is never going to change.” At least he and his wife can share it. Shrug. Chew. Swallow. “I used to try and model myself off his characters— for a long time—” _I still do_ — “because I thought that was what he wanted. Maybe it is, I dunno. It doesn’t matter. I love my father and he loves me, we’re both just too weird to… deal with it.” 

“Are the pills yours, or his?” Sam asks. And, goddammit. Cas has to smile a little bit at how smart this kid is. But that’s followed by the panic, because nobody is supposed to know. And both Winchesters spotted them right away. 

He should probably lie. Say that he broke his leg or his femur or his life. Only one of those would be true. “Mine.” 

“So you’re trying to give me a drug talk while you’re hiding those?” 

“Who said this was a drug talk?” And he’s not hiding them so much as trying to disguise them in plain sight. 

Eye contact is broken. More cornflakes are crunched. It takes Sam a minute to say anything. “Dean says I don’t want to be like him.” 

“Be Sam,” Cas suggests. And then, because he has to sound even more like a narc anon sponsor, “I shouldn’t— I haven’t always made the best choices, but…”

“How often?” 

“Eh?” 

“Do you do drugs.” 

“More than I should.” Sam is as much of a stranger to Castiel as Castiel is to Sam. He shouldn’t be talking about his life to an eighth grader unless he’s trying to impart some wisdom or moral or something. But Cas’s life doesn’t have a moral. He’s always going to be a junkie, always looking for the best high. “Honest opinion, Sam? Dean’s right. You don’t want to be like him, or like me, for that matter. Dean wants— Dean wants for you to be safe. He wants you to have a job and a house. He’s sacrificing everything to get that for you, and he might not look like it on paper, you might not think he’s much, but your brother is... um...” amazing. Cas shakes his head. He can’t say that out loud.

Sigh. 

“Garrison would crush you, anyway,” he says. “Fucking fascists. But— Hunter is good, and you could do well there.” 

Sam considers him. “Dean is the strongest person I know,” he says, “but he’s right. I don’t want to be like him. Is that— can you love someone without wanting to be like them?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, just turns back to his book. “Mayella Ewell is annoying as Hell.” 

“She’s desperate,” Cas says. Tries to go with the new subject. “She was attracted to someone she shouldn’t be, and she was lonely, and she wanted someone to love her. And then her family—” he stops. He’s not identifying with Mayella Ewell, because Sam is right. He clears his throat, looks away, and tries to pretend that Sam’s eyes aren’t making his neck prickle. “That’s probably what your teacher will want to hear, anyway.” 

The other boy’s face disappears again behind the purple cover. 

Cas checks his phone, and then pretends to be busy with the newspaper as Dean reenters. Wet hair sticking out, and Cas definitely doesn’t think— bad thought, Castiel. Bad, non-Christian, distracting thoughts. 

Ugh. 

Phone again. “Normally, I’d give you guys a ride, but my parents drove the car to Spokane.” 

“It’s fine,” Dean says quickly. “Do you know where we could get a seven bus from here? We came kind of a roundabout way.” 

Castiel is halfway through writing instructions on the back of Dean’s hand when the doorbell rings. 

“Sam, could you get that?” Cas shakes the pen once, then finishes writing the cross-street. “There.”

“Thanks.” 

It’s probably good for everyone involved that Cas has taken a step back when Balthazar marches in, stares at the scene for a moment with his mouth half open. 

Goddammit. He should have timed that better. It wasn’t like he hadn’t known who it was when he told Sam to answer. And maybe he’s doing the same thing Sam might have been— wanting Balthazar to _know_ about this important part of his life without actually having to tell him. 

“Hey, Balth.” 

Pause. 

“Having a slumber party?” 

“Yeah,” Dean says. “We braided Sam’s hair, painted toenails.”

Balthazar snorts. Gives Dean a fantastic stink-eye, and Cas was stupid and he doesn’t want to deal with this. He’d sort of counted on hostilities being saved for later. 

It’s not Dean’s fault Cas doesn’t know how to start a goddamn conversation on his own. 

“And then you just get on the twelve,” he says. “You have quarters?” 

“Yeah.” Dean mirrors the glare. “Thanks, Cas.” 

The diaspora is hardly more than thirty seconds— avoided eyes, like they’ve been caught doing something wrong, shoes shoved on feet and a door hastily locked and Dean and Sam are already around the corner by the time Balthazar starts the car. 

“So you want to explain that?” 

“There’s nothing to explain,” Castiel says. “They needed a place to stay.” 

“Uh huh.”

“What?” 

“Just worried about you, Cassie.” At the moment, Cas is more worried about his life, because Balthazar is pulling out of his parking spot none too carefully. “You’ve been off for awhile.” 

“Yeah.” Cas knows that Balthazar really is on edge, though, because he’s gone British. Apparently having an accent-mood ring is one of the side effects of having British parents. It also makes it harder to take him seriously when he’s yelling, because you can practically hear the extra ‘u’s in his words, and Uriel has laughed through more Righteous Indignation than Cas cares to remember. “I’ve been—” haven’t been clean. “Cleaner.” 

His friend just shakes his head. “Just don’t let Dean Winchester fuck with you,” he says. 

_Everyone is attracted to Dean._ Can Balth see it? Can everyone? Because Cas isn’t friends with him because he’s a fine piece of man-flesh, he knows that much. And he’s been attracted to other people before, and he wouldn’t have let _them_ in—

“We’re friends,” he says. _With random blowjobs._ But he’s not going to think about that when he’s in a car with Balthazar because he doesn’t trust himself not to get hard. Dean’s mouth, Dean’s face, Dean shirtless, all one thousand and two percent off-limits. 

Yeah. 

They talk about YouTube comments for the rest of the drive, and Balthazar reverts back to good old American pronunciations. But Cas can’t help noticing the weird side-glances he gets, and he doesn’t— he has to veer back to the topic, as suddenly as Balthazar turns into a parking spot that shouldn’t have fit him. 

“I’m not a fragile snowflake,” he says. “Was I supposed to just leave them out in the rain?” 

There’s a pause, and Cas focuses on the world outside the window; if he was being deep, he could talk about how he’d never seen what was out the window before, how Dean had opened his eyes. It’d be a lie, though, a hyperbolic search for meaning. The world has always been there, and he’s always been just as aware of it. It’s just that Dean had asked him for help and Cas couldn’t have lived with himself if he said no. 

“They’re not your problem,” Balthazar says, pulling up in front of the school. “Just, remember that they’re not your problem.” 

Balth is wrong.

II.  
This is the fifth or sixth time the thin-faced man has been to see him. Dean’s not complaining— he’s been paying more and more each time, for deep-throating, for swallowing, then for coming on his face and then just fucking Dean’s face until he chokes. This time, he’s sitting up— he’d been on his back, the man kneeling over him, and he hates that, but it’s worth it for eighty bucks— when everything changes once again. 

“So, tell me,” the John says. “How much would it cost to get a room?” 

There’s no dick in his mouth now, but Dean chokes a bit anyway. “What?” 

“You, me.” The man’s voice is sandpaper. “Hotel room, you spread open all pretty on the bed—” 

Dean stares another second. Furious with himself for not coming off smoother. For not noticing how this man has been constantly pushing his comfort zone and— “Are you asking— I’ve never—” 

Yeah, doing real well, Winchester. 

“Really.” The man draws closer. “Really.” Beat. “Two hundred dollars, then? Make it special?” 

He’s still staring, and he can’t stop. Two hundred dollars would— that’s a few nights in a hotel, that’d get him more on his way to that apartment he’s fantasized about, that’s online classes to— 

That could be his body found in the sewer. He’s heard the rumors. 

“Okay,” he says. 

“Friday night?” 

“Okay.” Right. “Where?” 

“Red motel. Room one-fourteen.” Long pause, then a hand extended towards him. A hand he wants to put in— Dean’s stomach ties itself into the most impressive knot. “I’m Alastair.” 

He’s so not on form tonight. Choppy and stupid and— “I’m Dean.” Dean, there are a lot of Deans. 

Alastair nods, and starts to turn, and somewhere through the wall of— everything going on in his head, shots firing off into the night on four cylinders— Dean remembers. “Condom,” he manages. “And you bring lube.” 

The dramatic turn should have been accompanied by a sweeping coat, but it’s not, because Dean’s life is not a movie and god what is he doing, what is he doing. But it’s okay because it’ll help Sam, because maybe if he has— if there’s more money, if he has less to worry about, maybe Sam’ll be less likely to be stupid, maybe he can get… it’ll help, it’ll help him, and Dean holds onto that knowledge so tight. “Of course,” Alastair says. The sandpaper is sliding down his sides, now, his back. “It’d be ungentlemanly not to.” 

And then he’s gone. 

Dean Winchester doesn’t freak out. Dean Winchester doesn’t hyperventilate. Dean Winchester doesn’t feel dirty, because it’s not that different from using his mouth. It matters even less, really, because that’s the hole he shits out of, not— good things go in his mouth, right, pie and chocolate, and— and— if he continues down that road he might feel even sicker. But Alastair’s dick is worth barely more than his shit. So that’s okay. That’s okay. And it’s going to hurt, but he can handle that, too. Can’t hurt more than some of the other hits he’s taken, because guys enjoy this, right? Barnes had made a few references to how great it was, mostly to make Damien turn funny colors, and Cas— 

Cas—

Two hundred dollars. That’s four nights in a hotel, at least, if they go somewhere crappy. And he won’t have to go back to Cas’s. Can’t go back, because— 

He’d been sure, last night, that he’d been leveling the playing field. Cas does him a solid, Dean returns it. But now he just worries that he’s turned Cas into a john, too, that they were close to— they _were_ friends and now Dean has ruined it, like he’s ruined everything, because Cas will never look at him in the same way. 

But that’d happen eventually anyway.

He has to take a few deep breaths. He’s okay, he’s okay, and Sammy will be better with more money, and he’s okay. Walking back towards the bus stop like nothing’s wrong. Nothing is. 

His mind hangs on a thought— _hey Cas I’m going to take it up the ass in two days, any advice?_ But even Cas hasn’t done that, has only been on the other—

God. 

“Help, Cas?” he mutters, as though this is a prayer, as though Castiel could hear him. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.” 

Okay. He’s walking. He’s walking. He’s nodding hello at a bus driver who couldn’t give a damn what he does for money. There’s a hole in his plastic seat, and he digs his finger into it, pulls it a little wider in case there are answers in the foam. He’s getting off the bus and stumbling back to the Roadhouse. 

In through the window, past the sleeping teenagers— mostly sleeping, because Benny lifts his head a little: “Dean?” 

“Bathroom,” Dean whispers, jerking his thumb towards the door. And Benny just nods, mumbles something as he drops back to his pillow. 

Dean actually does go into the bathroom. Slips through the darkness to somewhere even darker, and when he turns on the light, it burns his eyes. 

He flips it off again. 

Deep. Breath. 

This isn’t a big deal. 

Still, he should— 

He puts one finger in his mouth. 

He’d thought about this a few times. When he felt safe in his thoughts, when things slipped through walls and barriers and dams. He’d felt around for his prostate once. But it had been sort of uncomfortable, and he’d given up, because he’d imagined the shame in his father’s eyes. It was okay to fuck men, probably— just less okay to let them fuck you. John Winchester had been constant like that. Like weather in May and party lines and Dean blindly followed the twists and turns. Follows. But he can’t, because his dad isn’t here, and he can do this. Okay. Okay. Okay. 

One fingertip circles his hole for a second. Relax, he’s got to relax. Maybe Cas does this at night sometimes. Maybe he’s done this thinking of Dean. Dean can do this, and it’s Cas’s face that’s in his mind when one finger goes in. It’s uncomfortable, and that’s when Alastair cuts in, and no no no. He’s going through with this, he’s going through with this, because Sammy needs him to. 

Okay. Prostate. 

He’s only thinking about Cas this much because he’s tired. Too tired and drained to be ashamed. He’s sure Cas knows where the prostate is, how to find it. Cas could suck on his fingers, slide them into Dean. Cas would be able to make it good, and maybe, watching Dean get off, he’d make that sound—

Oh. 

There it is. 

Dean starts targeting that spot, despite the slightly awkward angle. Works himself open to three fingers. And it still feels weird. But that’s okay. That’s okay. 

It’s a bit of a surprise when he realizes he’s hard. That it feels nice, slowly feeling around like this. And Alastair isn’t going to be careful and what is he getting himself into but he’s not weak. He’s not weak. He can handle the pain. There will be pain but he’s had worse, there was always worse. No problem. He’ll hurt, but he’s not a wimp, and it’s just sex. 

He looks down at where his fingers are disappearing, and he sees Cas fall apart for just a second before he comes all over his chest.

 

III.  
He’d been about to run for the freedom of the halls when Crowley stops him after calc. 

“A word, Castiel?” 

Uriel looks at him, eyebrows raised, muscles twisted and posed to rush to his defense. But Cas waves him on. He’s pretty sure that Crowley isn’t going to try and fight him in a classroom.

A theory that’s proven wrong the second it empties and a fist comes flying towards his face. 

It’s easy enough to block it, to knock the other in the stomach, to move forward and fall back into the patterns that have taken him over lately, but then Crowley just takes a step away. 

“Lay off.” 

“You punched me!” 

“No, I didn’t.” Crowley looks particularly affronted. “You stopped me. Anyway, I was just curious.” 

He drags his eyes down Castiel’s body, slowly, obviously, and Cas has to resist the urge to pull his trench coat closer. He’s pretty sure that would be counterproductive, and he doesn’t know what’s going on. 

A crucifix stares at him accusingly from its spot on the wall. 

“What do you want?” 

“So, as you know, I’m a tradesman of sorts.” Crowley looks around, then sits back on a desk. Casual, controlled. Castiel waves for him to continue, as the clock ticks down the seconds of break. “Anyway, a funny thing happened. So I was down in Sodo, and I heard an interesting story.” 

Between Crowley and Balthazar’s hulk-angry voice, Castiel is starting to hate anything remotely British. 

“Okay,” he says. “I don’t really have time—” 

“Apparently there’s two guys bouncing ‘round, fighting some gangs. Don’t seem to have any affiliations of their own— they go after everyone. One of them wears a trench coat, and carries a long silver blade.” He’s smiling innocently upwards from his place on the desk. Like he thinks they’re going to be in here for awhile. And Cas entertains for a moment the possibility of cutting his face off with the aforementioned knife, the one that’s hanging in his pocket like a sentence. 

“Are you asking me if I’m a gangbuster?” 

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “They call him the Angel.” 

That hits too close to home for his comfort. If he was ever comfortable. Not that they probably know what Garrison’s mascot is, not that they call him that because of that or would ever make any relevant connection, he wasn’t the one that called himself that, after all, he’s not thinking logically— and Crowley could just be making all that up— “Isn’t there a TV show about a vigilante named Angel?” 

Shrug. “Anything you want to tell me, Cas?” 

“Um, I won’t wear this coat in Sodo?” 

“Uh huh.” Crowley pats him on the arm. Hops off the desk like he doesn’t have a care on this good earth. “Seeya round.” 

Cas is left staring at Jesus. For a second sort of impressed with himself, that he has a name and a reputation. 

Then a dust bunny gets caught on Jesus’s crown of thorns, and reality kicks in. 

Oh, fuck. 

Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck. 

Castiel takes a deep breath. In, out, in, out, okay, okay, okay. Dump the coat, then. At least during the day. He’ll wear it at night so they won’t be able to recognize him without it, associate the Angel with the trench coat so that it’ll be an even better disguise, right. He’ll have to find another jacket with pockets that can hide ten inches of knife, but he can do that. He’ll wear this one a couple more days, though, to show Crowley— but what if he tells, what if— 

He should skip school right now but Crowley is in his last period and if he sees Cas isn’t there—

He texts Jo. 

_Make sure Dean is there at 3._

>>I am not his keeper. 

_Please._

The Metamorphosis, he did read it, but he can’t remember a thing, can’t remember, can’t remember anything. He has to get through class, and then— fuck, he doesn’t have a car, he doesn’t have a _car_ , he can’t get to the Roadhouse fast enough, and man up, Novak. 

He excuses himself to the restroom. 

It would have been prudent to put the Roadhouse on speed dial, but that’s just life. Those extra seconds to dial. At least it’s Ash, who somehow has time to volunteer during the day, who picks up. And at least Ash doesn’t relevant questions. 

“Is Dean there?” 

“Who’s this?” 

“Castiel.” 

“Oh, hey Castiel.” Pause. “What can I do for you?” 

Cas glances around to make sure that the bathroom is still empty. “ _Tell me if Dean is there,_ ” he hisses. “And get him on the phone.”

“Why are you whispering?” 

“ _Ash!_ ” 

“Fine, one moment.” There’s the sound of shuffling, then the broken babble of background voices. “Oi! Is there a Dean present?” 

It’s an agonizing thirty seconds before the phone gets handed off, and it’s been about as long as a good poop should take, he has to get back— “Cas?” 

“Dean.” Thank god thank god thank god. “Can you meet me in the alley on Madison at two twenty-five?” 

Pause. “Are you okay?” 

“ _No_ ,” he snaps, because dammit can’t they tell? He’s not okay and it’s bouncing off the bathroom walls, echoing, trapped. “I’d go down _there_ but I don’t have the car—” 

“Okay. Yeah, sure. Gotta leave now, though.” 

Castiel will apologize later. Will feel grateful, later, that Dean dropped everything. After he’s finished slipping back into English, trying to look calm as he meets Crowley’s eyes. Trying to appear attentive even as his stomach is sinking lower and lower into his stomach, through the floor, because—

IV.  
“Crowley _knows_.” He still can’t breathe. “I—”

“Calm down,” Dean says. Grabs his shoulders, and it’s only then that Cas realizes he’s half vibrating, and he’s never been this scared in his life, not _ever._

“Crowley knows— he knows people, too— My address is in the school directory! He knows where I live! All he has to do is go online— he’ll have it— my parents—” someone could come into the house, they could get hurt, maybe Cas should sleep by the door so that they’ll find him first, sleep with a gun, he’ll have to get his parents out more and what if—

“Cas.” Dean is a little more urgent now. Cas checks up and down the alley, because hell, maybe Crowley’s spies are there or something. Does Crowley have spies? He must. “Breathe, okay?” 

“My _parents_ —” 

“ _Cas._ ” Dean holds him tighter, but still at a distance. “It’s okay. You say Crowley can get your address online?”

“Yes—”

“Okay. We can change that.” 

“Not unless I get school address-change forms and they’ll know—”

“I know a girl, Charlie, she can get into your school’s system no problem. Change your address to something else.” 

That’s illegal as all hell, but Cas nods anyway because what kind of world has he fallen into, what kind of life has he started living? Why is he relieved, why does he want to collapse against a wall and be glad that he was right, that Dean would know what to do. “Really?” 

“Really.”

“Jo told me Charlie disappeared.” 

Dean smiles, and that’s far more comforting than it has any right to be. But Dean doesn’t understand, he doesn’t have parents, a home— “She did disappear. I know where to, though. And I’ll ask her to check out the chatter about us. Online.” 

“Oh.” 

“It’ll be okay, Cas.” 

“What if he already checked?”

“Then we’ll figure something else out.” Pause. “You want to hit me?” 

Cas considers for a second. “Okay.” 

Dean goes on the defensive.

 

V.  
Last Dean had heard, Charlie was squatting in some apartment on Queen Anne. He takes a bus up there after he texts Jo from Sam’s phone, asks her to make sure Sam shows up. 

Because Dean should be there. Dean needs to keep a closer eye on him, Dean needs to make sure he’s okay, but he will. He will, just as soon as he gets back. 

Anyway, Sam won’t know until the Roadhouse that Dean isn’t watching him like a hawk, so it’s okay. He won’t get waylaid because he’ll think— yeah. 

Dean finds what he’s pretty sure is the right apartment, and knocks four times. He isn’t sure what it’s a reference to, but it’s the only way she’ll open the door. She does, almost right away. 

“Hey, Dean.” 

“Hey.”

“Saw you coming up on the security cams,” she says. “Welcome to my humble abode.” 

“Not yours, I’m guessing.” 

“Nah.” She flops back onto the sofa, and Dean immediately understands why she picked this house: there’s a large-screen TV and an XBOX console. “I got it for another four days, though. At least, that’s how long they canceled their _Times_ subscription.” 

“Nice.” Dean isn’t sure if he should make a point of not touching anything, in case they sense that someone’s been here. Call the police. Get a mechanical hound or something to trace him. But if they do, he’s sure Charlie will shove everything into a wall incinerator, and he really needs to stop reading the books Ellen thinks would be “good for him” because clearly they’re not. 

She tosses him a second console. “Let’s switch to two-player,” she says. “What brings you here?” 

“Favors,” he admits. 

“You want to drive or shoot?” 

“I’ll drive.” He tests the car-cart-creation, spins it around in circles. “Although— one of them is kind of urgent.” 

Charlie pauses the game. “Hmm?” 

“Can you maybe get into the Garrison school network and update the address of Castiel Novak without anyone knowing you did it?” 

Before he’s finished speaking, her laptop— the only thing that comes with her from house to house, and what Dean’s pretty sure could make her a fortune at any company remotely interested in security— is out, and she’s typing away. “No problem. Garrison teachers… Administrators… A. Ralston, A. Zachariah… email, Adler Zachariah.” Pause. “Just gotta find all the networks he’s logged into with that email ID, and, here we go.” 

Dean looks around the apartment as she works— it’s nicer than some of her earlier ones, but he’s pretty sure that’s the gamble— the nicer, the better security. He doesn’t want to stay here too long, because the last thing he needs is to get arrested. Although he supposes that they’ll have advance notice of any police action, given that the security cameras are, for some odd reason, showing up on a desktop computer. Funny how that works. 

“What do you want the address to be?” 

Dean hasn’t thought that far. “I don’t know, some sketchy store nearby? For laughs?” 

“Easy enough, they’re near Broadway.” Pause. “Okay, anyone looking for Castiel Novak at home will now be seeing the Chief.” 

It’s hard not to laugh at that mental image. He’s never met Crowley, but he’s heard Cas’s descriptions— smarmy, British, runs a bit of a black market through the halls of Garrison. And beyond, apparently. He can almost create an imagine in his mind, and the idea of that kid going to see the Chief is— nothing short of beautiful. 

“Hey can you see who’s logged in to view the thing? Downloaded it?” 

“Yeah.” There’s a short pause. “No Crowley, if that’s what you’re worried about. No students, actually— I think the directory has gone the way of Blockbuster. So what else did you need?” she flips the laptop closed and restarts the game. Their pixel alter-egos go hurtling towards a hospital wall— the golf cart was a bad vehicle choice— and Dean slams on the buttons as he tries to turn them around. It’s been awhile, he’s rusty. Judgment free zone. 

The zone probably doesn’t apply to what he’s going to say next, though. So he waits until they’ve gunned down a few bad guys before he starts. “I, um. When we’re super… shortly after my dad— you know— I started sucking dick for cash.” 

They duck below a desk, let some communists fire over their heads. There’s a brief lull, and he uses it to dare a glance— but Charlie isn’t looking back, so he returns his focus to the game. 

“This guy— he’s been, you know, for awhile, and he’s offered me two hundred bucks for— um, going to a hotel with him.” 

A few more reds die, and Charlie doesn’t say anything, and he doesn’t know what to make of that. He waits for her to run off in disgust. 

“And I need the money. I mean, I gotta— lunch money for Sam, there’s some first aid stuff I’d like to have, Sam’s gotta pay for all sorts of things for graduation, _middle school graduation_ , it’s ridiculous.” 

“Won’t the school help with that?” It’s the first thing she says, twirling the controls in a masterful stroke that disables three commies at once. 

“Yeah. But you have to ask and get a parent to talk to them— and we don’t want them looking too close, you know? They’ll figure out really fast…” doesn’t want them to take Sam away, because neither of them would survive that. Dean has seen products of the foster care system. Jeffrey hadn’t gotten anything out of it, certainly, and Sam is so much older, so much harder to find a home for— 

_Breathe_. 

Dean collects a few extra weapons. 

“So,” Charlie says. “What… are you here because you want me to talk you into it, or out of it?” 

He doesn’t want to have to decide these things. He wants someone to tell him what’s right, what’s wrong, wants someone else responsible for decisions just this once. 

“I don’t know. I think—” swallow. “I don’t think I have any other choice, do I?” 

She doesn’t say anything. 

“I guess I will,” Dean continues. “Can I— can you—?” 

“If you haven’t reached me by two am I’ll call the police,” she says immediately. And he’d tell her everything he knows about Alastair, except that most of what he knows is that he likes it when Dean is embarrassed and he likes— roughness, seeing Dean choke. If he’s losing his ass virginity to anyone, Alastair seems like the worst possible choice, and God, what is he getting into. 

_Man up, Winchester._

He takes a deep breath. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, okay.” 

It takes a second to realize that Charlie’s eyes are a little watery. “Dean— I can— I can get money from somewhere, Dean, I—”

“It’s fine. Really.” Because this is on him, not on her. “I’ve gotten more favors from you than—” 

“But. But.” There’s a long pause, as the storyboard takes over. “Won’t— won’t it— you’ve never, before, right?”

 _I’m not gay._ “No.” He considers asking her about it, about what he should do, to make it less painful, what it’s going to— except then he realizes that she has even less experience with penises than he does, so he stops. “How’s Gilda?”

“You’re trying to distract me. It won’t work.” 

“Please, Charlie.” And then they’re at the bossfight, and the world is falling around them in pixels. 

“I haven’t seen her in awhile. Having to go undercover again and all. I’m Bradbury, now. Charlie Bradbury.” 

Speak of the devil. Dean holds down on the machine gun. “Like, Fahrenheit 451?” 

“Don’t let anyone ever tell you you’re stupid.” 

They accidentally burn down the hospital and have to go back to start.

VI.  
“I got stuff to take care of, m’kay?” he ruffles Sam’s hair, even though Sam is getting too tall for that. “Stick with Benny, don’t go near Gordon, the usual.” 

Sam sighs. Picks at his hamburger with a spork. “You’re going to have to tell me eventually, Dean.” 

_Never_. “I’m gonna sneak into a bar and hustle some pool, okay?” Which he could do, maybe, but people don’t bet much around here. Still. John had taught him to play, and Sam seems to buy it. 

He’s paid Benny ten of his precious dollars not to let Sam out of his sight. He’s hidden his money belt between two books in the Roadhouse basement. He’s done everything he can think of and it’s not enough. 

“Dean.” Sam is staring at him. Eyes wide, pupils normal right now, thank God. “Be careful, okay?” 

Dean leans over to ruffle his brother’s hair again. “You know me.” 

“That’s not comforting.” 

“Run along, now.” 

He watches from the window as Sam crosses the street and joins Benny in line. 

Too far away, and Dean doesn’t know if he’ll ever really reach him. 

He’s got three hours to kill, so he goes down to the library and scans some of the web chatter. And maybe Dick Roman _is_ joining up with the Leviathans, maybe not, but he’s probably not pregnant and the Seattle Police Department probably isn’t working with them against the world, so he’s not quite sure if what he’s learned is helpful. Just good to keep an eye, he figures, make sure that they’re not coming nearby. It’s not like he’s looking for a fight or anything. It’s only been a week since he and Castiel left a nice welcome message to the Demons. 

Okay. He might be looking for a fight. 

Next, he searches for the quickest bus route to the Red Motel. 

Until the library kicks him back out onto the street, and he is _not scared_ , not scared. He’s not scared when he gets on the bus and he’s not even nervous when he transfers and he’s not even a little bit jealous of the woman in the heavy overcoat who is probably going home and this is fine, this is fine. _Sammy._ Gotta take care of Sammy. 

He’d known the Red Motel would be sketchy, but even by his standards, he’s a little wary of approaching the low, bunker-like creation. But the door to the lobby opens when he pushes on it, and it’s fine. It’s not like he’s here for the room service. 

Dean meets the smirk of the man at the desk head-on. _I am not ashamed._ And at least that bit is true. He’s scared, maybe, but he’s not ashamed. 

And then he’s in front of Alastair’s door number. 

He knocks. 

“Unlocked.” Thank god this place is too cheap for key cards. 

He opens it. 

He isn’t sure what he was expecting, but it wasn’t Alastair flopped on the bed, under the sagging post-and-lintel ceiling, reading _The Seattle Times_ and jacking off. Hopefully those things aren’t connected, because the headline is something about Benghazi. 

Dean closes the door, and checks the ten twenty-dollar bills on the table next to it. Okay. 

“What do you want?” He’d been going for smooth and ‘how do you want me’, but he’s afraid it comes out more ‘I don’t know what to do.’ Alastair seems okay with that, though. He stands. Drops the paper to the floor. 

“Strip.” 

Even without his money belt, he’s uncomfortable taking his shirt off. It feels weird, exposed, and he half expects to be in a fight. 

He drops his pants. 

Okay. 

Whatever. 

He’s then instructed to get on his hands and knees, and he takes a deep breath, preparing for— yeah. Alastair is probing at him, feeling around. 

“You tried to open for me,” he says, words rolling down Dean’s back. “Good.” But now he’s tensing, trying to close, and the bedspread is hideous, stained, an ugly yellow pattern and he hopes it’s like that naturally. He feels Alastair’s chuckle just as well as he hears it. “You really haven’t done this before, have you.” 

“Did you think I was lying?” _Relax, relax, relax._

“Thought the blushing virgin thing might be an act, yeah.” A smack, across his rear. “Glad it’s not.” 

_Breathe, breathe out, breathe—_

Alastair slams in.

 

VII.  
He’s prepared an excuse, a question for the front desk, but the guy there I sound asleep. So he doesn’t see how Dean glances over his shoulder to see which keys are still hanging on the pegs, and he doesn’t see how Dean memorizes the number of one that’s the farthest away. From everything. 

It takes five very long minutes to pick the lock on the door he’d selected. 

Again, at least they don’t have key cards. 

He’s only slightly comforted that the yellow bedspread in here is the same. A crumbling room in a crumbling world. 

The shower sucks, but even the thin, rusty dribble is good. It’s not cleansing, it’s not a baptism, but it’s enough to get some of Alastair’s breath and words off his skin. Dean slumps against the wall, eyes closed. Lets the water seal them shut. 

Grunting, panting, and _take it, take it._ Digging his hands into the mattress in an attempt to not fall forward. 

Alastair pushing his shoulders down until they hit the mattress, face hidden in the pillows. Can’t move, can’t breathe. (Tried to think of Cas, but then there’d been an abruptly sharp thrust, and he doesn’t because Cas doesn’t fit in here. So absent that Dean can’t pretend, won't pretend that Cas would do that to him.) 

But it doesn’t matter. It’s over and he’s got two hundred dollars hidden behind the toilet. 

Still, he waits a couple more minutes before he leaves the bathroom. Goes to the phone, and pulls the crumpled number out of his pocket. 

He double-checks each digit as he dials. 

Then a clicking sound as they connect this stolen room to another, two people linked in a sleepwalking city. 

Charlie picks up on the second ring. 

“Hey.”

“Hey,” he says. “Everything’s fine.” 

A quick breath on her end. “You okay?” 

“Fine,” Dean repeats. “I mean, I—” it hurts. “I could go for some weed or Valium or something right about now.” 

“I have better than that,” she says. 

“Yeah?” 

“You got a pen’n paper?”

Not as such. Dean wedges the phone between his shoulder and his ear before investigating the nightstand. There’s no pad for taking calls, but there is a pristine Bible. 

He smiles a little. Years of sketchy people in this room, and none of them had bothered to open it. 

Until now. He digs a pencil stub out of his pocket, before tearing out the title page. It’s blank except for what it proclaims: **Holy Bible** , _New American Edition_. “Yeah,” he says. “Got it.” 

She rattles off a list of numbers. 

“What—”

“That’s Castiel Novak’s home number.” 

“Oh.”

He doesn’t know how to react to that.

He’s not allowed to call Cas, because what would he even say? _Hi, Cas, I just fucked a guy for money and I thought of you a couple times. Hi, Cas, how’s it going, you’ll never believe what I just did. Hey, Cas, have you ever wanted to take it up the ass?_

His response is extremely intelligent. “Why?” 

“Well, you went to all the trouble of finding me to protect him. Thought you might want it.” Whatever comment she was going to add is split off by a yawn, and it’s only then that Dean realizes that the flickering clock must be accurate after all. It says it’s about two in the morning. 

“Thanks,” Dean manages. He considers yawning himself, but he’s too nocturnal at this point. “I guess.” 

He’s pretty sure that she’s making her _men_ face right now, but he can’t be positive. Doesn’t matter much, though. “I’m going to clear out of here tomorrow morning,” she says. “I’ll let you know my new number when I have it.” 

“I’m always at the same place,” Dean says. “Oh, Cas says that Jo was wondering about you. You should say hi.” 

“Maybe.” But Charlie’s flattered at being wondered about, so Dean figures he’ll see her around. “Talk to you tomorrow.” 

Pause. 

“I love you.” 

Dean smiles. 

“I know.” 

She hangs up. 

He doesn’t let himself think about that too much. About how Charlie is the only person to say that to him in words. He can’t let her be the sister he never had, might have had, because he doesn’t know how many parking spaces are in his heart. Can’t let himself think about how he would mess up someone who hurt Charlie almost as much as someone who hurt Sam. 

Can’t think about how many people are mentally filed under “family” now. 

He takes a deep breath, knows he shouldn’t, and dials again. 

Before he can think about how late it is, because, fuck. Cas is probably awake anyway. Can’t think about the odds that one of his parents is going to answer and demand to know who the fuck is calling at such an ungodly time, because they probably won’t. And sure enough, it’s a sleepy yet conscious voice that answers. 

“’Lo?”

“Cas?” Dean double checks, more out of habit than anything. 

“Dean?” Suddenly it’s sharper, more focused. “Is something wrong?” 

“No!” Should have planned that better, late phone calls never bring good news. “No, no, everything’s fine. I just… um, me and Sammy got a hotel tonight, and it’s got a phone. I have a phone all to myself and I thought I’d use it.” He realizes he’s babbling, and shuts up. 

“Sam in there?” 

Probably should have planned that one. 

“Sleeps like a light,” Dean says, making sure that he’s keeping his voice down. In case there’s someone outside who knows there’s not anyone renting this room, not because of a sleeping brother. But a lie is a lie and it’s necessary. He doesn’t need to feel bad about it. “If lights sleep, I guess. That phrase doesn’t make sense. He’s drooling.” 

That gets a chuckle, and Dean can’t help but feel somewhat victorious. “Which hotel?”

“It’s this creeptatsic place on Aurora. You should see this blanket, it looks like it got dunked in cat pee.” 

Pause. “I’d rather not.” 

“Your loss.” He lies back on the bed. Studies the cracks in the ceiling paint for a moment, how they grow and spread like trees and weeds and Sammy. “Hey what do you know about the Leviathans?” 

“Uhm… the book? Or the gang?” 

Dean laughs this time. “The gang. Dick Roman apparently hooked up with them.” 

“You’d know that better than—” a yawn “—I would. Just tell me who to—” 

And he's tired. Of course he's tired. “I should go,” Dean says. “Let you sleep. And in case I wake up Sammy.” 

“I guess,” Cas says. “Goodnight, Dean.” 

Dean doesn’t hang up, though. He keeps the phone next to his ear, listening listening. Imagines that that white noise on the other end is Cas breathing, and so when he lies back down on the pillow. The rising and falling of static, waves, like waves on a beach. There are some pretty beaches in Seattle, Dean knows, but he’s only ever taken Sam to Alki once… he should do that more. That time they had been kicking around sand, trying to figure out what the fuss was about, and someone had told them that the real cool stuff was under the water and did they want to learn to scuba dive. Dean’s wary of going anywhere that requires his own air— he’s got enough to worry about above ground… but it’s nice to imagine… swimming, breathing, floating in bubbles and trapped in a quiet, underwater world. Under the waves, waves, and Dean’s so tired, more tired than he thought he would be tonight. 

It’s only when the phone clicks, when the harsh buzz jars him back into the room, that that had been Cas breathing the entire time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Junior's Eyes](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HxBUuuOjycA)


	7. If You Want Blood (You've Got It)

The street lamp illuminates a perfect oval: everything else is empty. 

It’s an unhappy group that crouches in the nothing. Benny wants better ‘intel’, Victor’s ankle hurts and “maybe we should have just left you behind,” and Gordon—

“Dean should be here,” Gordon hisses. Cas can’t see the expression tossed his way, but he can imagine it— eyebrows low over a face twisted by betrayal and resentment. A dirty look, perhaps: but in the shadows, they’re all dirty. 

He frowns. 

Does not engage. 

At least Gordon checks that they’re still in the clear before continuing. It’s a tangent he’s been on likely since before they met up, but he isn’t over it, not yet. “Dean’s wanted a piece of Levi ass for _ages_ , and now that he knows we’re going to be gettin’ some, he sends his pet angel? We need him.” 

There are no sidewalks here, no cracks in the pavement for Castiel to count. He can deal with immature little shits, he’s good at that. No, he’s not. Because whenever Uriel or Gabe or Balthazar disrespects him, they know how to settle it. But he’s not allowed to beat Gordon’s ass up. At least not right now. It might be a good idea later, when— 

“Doesn’t he get that Sam’s crippling him? It’d be better if—” 

Breathe in. Breathe out. But he can’t stop his hand from slipping into his pocket, fingering the edge of the knife. He’s been using it as a quasi-worry stone lately: he wonders if it’ll eventually have grooves. 

At least rubbing it will get rid of some fingerprints. 

“He could at least have scouted the area out— nobody would have asked someone with _his_ face what he’s doing here.” 

That’s it. 

Cas reacts before he has the time to talk himself out of it. He’s on his feet— he’s not entirely lost, he knows to keep out of sight, but it’s a close thing— and grabs the edge of Gordon’s t-shirt as he goes. And then the other boy is pinned against the moldy cement wall. 

He knows, in theory, that Walker is only like this because he lost _his_ Sam, but logic and empathy have no place in the world he is building. 

“You should have shut your mouth a long time ago.” He digs his arm into the other boy’s throat. “You will _not_ bring Sam Winchester into this, and you will not—” 

“Man, you crushing on Dean’s brother?” For someone who could quite possibly suffer death by asphyxiation in the next few minutes, Gordon’s teeth glow as he similes. “Bit of a manther, are we?” 

Cas shoves him again, just for emphasis. “Are you trying to—” 

“You’re out of your mind,” Gordon interrupts, voice a low hiss. Vaguely, Cas wonders whether Victor and Benny are just eating popcorn over there, but maybe this has to happen. Maybe this is Gordon’s test. Pushing and pushing until he gets a reaction. “You and the fuckin’ Winchesters. Now why don’t you stop pretending you have the balls to hurt—”

The knife is in his hand. 

Which is funny; he doesn’t remember pulling it out of his pocket. But there it is, touching Gordon Walker’s throat. 

“Cas,” Benny says, sounding more amused than anything else. But it doesn’t help, and Castiel’s hands tighten on the knife. 

“You will not disrespect Dean Winchester,” he says. He considers adding an _or me_ , but he doesn’t think that will be a problem. “Capiche?” 

Gordon says nothing, but he’s eyeing the knife: the whites of his eyes are showing, just a little. They are all fragments of shapes in this dark. Cas takes a step back, but he keeps up the glare. 

“Dude,” Victor says. “Remind me not to piss you off.” 

There’s a shift on Benny’s face that might be an eyebrow raising. Then— “if you could put your dicks away,” he says, “we’ve got a mission.” 

Right. 

Cas is very tempted to do the children’s _I’m watching you_ gesture, but Gordon wouldn’t be able to see it— and anyway, they’re on the same side. For what that’s worth. Even if the other guy hates Sam Winchester merely for existing and is— right. Same side, same side. It’s Them verses Not Them, and Cas is in no position to question those who are part of the Us. 

Their targets appear. Just on the corner, and Cas wishes that they could Take This Inside— but at least most of the houses down here aren’t occupied by anyone who would care. Crack houses, meth labs, abandoned buildings crushed under forgotten memories. Victor gives the Go whisper, and they’re out.

Three on four aren’t odds Castiel likes, but at least it’s in their favor. 

Victor addresses the tallest one. A boy-man with a high forehead and black hair. Hispanic? He didn’t think the Levis were Latino-centric, but maybe they’re a Social Justice gang. “Downtown’s off limits,” Vic says. “You have to clear out.” 

The other two take up defensive postures behind Tall. Becoming shadows. 

“Neutrons only,” he continues. “You hear me? Pass the word up to Dick.” 

“Yeah? Says who?” 

“Us,” Gordon says. “And the Angel.” 

They’re gearing up for a fight, they all are, and it’s terrible that Cas is quietly pushing them. _Come on. Try us._ Because Gordon was being an asshole and Naomi was asking him weird questions earlier and _come on._ He wants a fight. 

So it’s only half an accident when he steps into the light, blade drawn. 

All three of them recognize it. Of course they do. 

Tall’s hand goes to his pocket, and Benny and Victor have the guns out just as fast as he does. Gordon joins Castiel in the Light. His own knife also visible. 

In the second before the fight starts, Cas’s last real thought is _don’t scratch up my dad’s gun, I don’t want to explain that._

Then they’re all moving. 

A couple gunshots, and it’s just motion. Victor is dropping and rolling so Cas moves forward and then he’s swinging and shoving and there’s only one gun on the other side and Gordon’s going at it, twisting and he’s got his finger down the barrel and Cas isn’t sure if that works or if it’s an urban legend because he’s got one on him and a knife swings past his face, _too close_ , so he shoves forward— no elegance, never any elegance— and is able to move the guy back a couple feet with a palm to the forehead, making his neck snap back, and then he’s swiping with his knife, Dick Roman’s knife, slashing at one of Dick’s people and he’s only really used it to poke and threaten, he’s not prepared for how it feels cutting through flesh. It’s not fatal, but the guy still stumbles, and Cas pushes him again when someone hits him in the side and the tall one— Gordon’s bleeding, he didn’t get the gun, and the tall one is pointing it in his face and Cas raises a hand to block it and maybe he's going to die—

And then there’s a _bang_ and the Leviathan drops the gun, yelling in pain because Benny’s bullet has gone straight into his hand, and Benny kicks him aside and grabs Cas’s shoulder, yanks him to his feet just in time for two more gunshots (yelps but no screams, the others have missed,) and then the third one is flat on his back and they’re all putting on masks of Silent Macho Pain and Victor kneels next to one of them, almost tenderly pinching the back of his neck. 

The rush Cas gets when he knocks out the second one is exhilarating. Everything is zooming, spinning, and it’s with that that Cas catches Benny’s hand before it falls on the tall one. 

“What’s your name?” Castiel asks him. 

There’s a glare. “Edgar.” 

Gordon snorts. Cas ignores him. 

“Stay out of downtown,” he says. “And Capitol Hill. And the CD, while you’re at it.” (Edgar doesn’t look like he’s getting the point, so Cas pokes his gunshot wound with one finger. Edgar yelps.) “I trust that you’ll tell Dick.” 

He doesn’t wait for an answer, just makes a face at the other three. 

And then they bolt. 

The others aren’t in any shape to come running after them, but there’s no telling what’s happening and they jump on the rusty (stolen, but Cas _does_ plan on returning them to Gregg’s Bike Repair) bikes and it’s three blocks downhill and it’s adrenaline and it’s _singing_ and _God_ Cas could get used to this. _Is_ used to this. 

The bikes shake as they go onto the grass, and then there are a few moments in pitch black before they drop. Drop roll and stop, even though that’s probably not the right order. 

And then they lie for a minute on the ground, panting out the adrenaline. Above them, the sky is blurred pink from street lamps. But Cas doesn’t think his eyes would be able to focus on the stars, even if he could see them. 

“That,” Gordon says, “was killer.” 

“Yeah.” Victor’s echo is a bit dazed. “Killer.” 

Cas pulls out his phone. He can’t see, but he’s pretty sure the others are frowning— whether at him, or the reminder that he has a phone, he doesn’t know. “What?” 

“Who are you calling?” 

“Nine-one-one. We did shoot a couple guys.” He hesitates. “Anyway, if they’re in the hospital, it’ll be a thing, and maybe it’ll embarrass them into staying away.” 

“Or make a big deal,” Benny says. “Or they might want revenge.” 

“I’m not leaving them to bleed out on the street,” Cas says, somewhat irritable. His hands don’t shake as he dials. The entire conversation is over within seconds, and he knows that it’s probably a bad thing that they can’t trace cellphones: but in his case, it’s working out. 

Then he lies back on the dirt, and wonders if the ground can— not swallow him up. But protect him, maybe, just for a few minutes. 

 

II.  
Later, after he’s snuck back inside the house— pausing at his parents’ door to see that his father’s laptop light is on, but his ear buds are in— he gets into the shower. He doesn’t quite know what to do about the bloodstains, so he leaves his clothes in a heap on the floor.

He’ll soak them in cold water later. 

Or maybe warm water. 

He doesn’t remember what to do for that. But it’s got to be possible to get blood out of clothing, right? A significant part of Anna’s adolescence was spent with a bucket, jeans, and a bar of ivory soap. 

He’ll deal with it later. 

Right now he stands in the shower, and watches the blood run down the drain. Notices a few cuts that he hadn’t felt at the time. Several, actually, deeper than he’d thought, and he remembers helping patch Dean up in here, remembers— but he can put Ace bandages on his own damn wounds. 

It stings, under the spray, but he ignores it. 

His shoulder is turning funny colors as well. 

Everything’s a lot less exciting, after the fact. Watching the consequences bloom on his skin. 

He wonders what fights his dad is writing about, and if they’re at all like the real thing.

 

III.  
Dean, you’re freaking out, Sam had said. 

Dean, what’s going on, Sam had said. 

Dean doesn’t really know. 

He just knows that he’s currently sitting in line for a family shelter in friggin Tacoma, Alastair’s money burning holes in his chest.

He’ll get over it. In the next day or so, he’ll be over it. It’s just kind of weird right now. And he’s not used to be worrying about what other people think. He’d grown up burning through cities with Dad, and it didn’t matter what he did because they’d be gone soon enough. But now he has to look Bobby in the eye and think _I let a guy fuck me for cash_ and look at Sam and think _I had to do it to help you_ and he doesn’t even know what Cas would—

Breathe. 

He’s breathing. 

“Dean, what the hell is going on?” Sam asks.

“Language, Sammy.” 

“Fuck you.” 

“That’s better.” 

He shifts his weight from one leg to the other. It’s a Friday, and it’s nice out, and there’s one motherfucker of a line. Could be the day of the week canceling out the good weather, or maybe Tacoma sucks worse than he’s heard. 

It doesn’t matter, because he’s counted the people ahead of them three or four times, and they’re numbers forty two and forty three. 

“Dean, why aren’t we at the Roadhouse?” 

“Because they got sick of your face.” 

“ _Dean._ ” 

Dean turns and glares, and Sam has the decency to look cowed. But he’s got a point, and he’s doing a shit-tastic job of pretending everything is normal. He freaked out, that’s all. 

He can’t tell the whole truth, but he can tell part of it. “Tim Janklow was coming in tonight.” 

Sam blinks. “So?” 

So Dean wouldn’t put it past him to give his brother free drugs, that’s what. But Sam gets that message loud and clear after another moment of silence, and then his face is torn between pissed and guilty. “I _said_ it won’t—”

“Doesn’t matter.” _I failed you and also I don’t trust you._ Dean crosses his arms and glares at the front of the line again. 

It occurs to him that they don’t have to be here. He could have put them up in a hotel somewhere for the night. But then Sam would ask where they got the money, and he’s a smart kid, and maybe worse, he’d start to piece things together. How off he’s been, how the bills smell like— maybe Dean’s imagining that part. But he’s got Sam’s end of school fees covered, and he’ll need more for high school, and— 

Five o’clock comes, fast as the seasons, and the doors open. Dean holds tight to Sam’s shoulder with one hand, his backpack with the other, and throws himself forward into the rush. 

The man with the clicker nods at them as they go in. 

IV.  
The woman who sits across from them at dinner is doing a very impressive job of eating without looking up from _Fifty Shades of Grey._ Every few seconds, she snorts, and occasionally underlines something in pencil. 

Sam looks at Dean, with large eyes, then back to the book. 

Dean shakes his head. 

Sam nods to the book more forcefully. 

Dean shakes his head again. 

Sam opens his mouth, and—

“It’s okay, boy, you can say it,” the woman says, still not looking up. “It’s a weird thing to be reading at dinner.” 

“Is it as bad as people say?” Sam asks. 

She laughs, and considers the breaded chicken for a moment before putting it in her mouth. “It’s certainly educational.” 

Sam turns fifty shades of pink and shuts up. 

“So what’s your story?” she asks, putting the book down next to her plate— cover up, and she gets a few odd glances from passerby. “What are you running from?” 

“We’re not running from anything,” Dean says. Wishes that they’d just left her to her book. “What’s it to you?” 

“Don’t you take that tone with me, boy.” (And for a second Dean flashes back to John, but then he stops, because John has been out of their lives for over a year and thinking about him won’t bring him back.) 

“Sorry.” He says, and has to bite down on the _sir_. “Ma’am.” 

She laughs. “There might be hope for you yet. I’m Missouri.” A hand is offered across the table. Dean stares at it for a second, not quite sure how to react, and so Sam reaches past him and shakes it far too enthusiastically. 

“I’m Sam,” he says, because that child is an idiot. “This is Dean.” 

“Thanks, Sammy.”

“Don’ worry, there’s no one in here gives a shit. Most of them are deaf old men.” One of the supposedly deaf old men turns around at that, but Missouri just smiles and waves at him. “I’m here all the time, they don’t bother me twice.” 

Maybe she scares them off with poorly written porn. Dean doesn’t say anything, but returns to his chicken. Plastic chicken on a plastic plate on a plastic table, and he wonders what the floor is made of. Is linoleum plastic, too? 

“So you didn’t answer my question. What you running from?” At Dean’s glare, she adds, “I know the look.” 

Maybe she keeps everyone away by creeping them out. 

Dean flashes to Jo and Cas before he can stop himself. And then Alastair. “Just needed a change of scenery. We usually hit up the shelters in Seattle.” 

“Dean is having a crisis,” Sam says. 

Dean considers hitting him. 

But he lets his little brother have this conversation, and he’s pretty sure half those jokes are about him. It’s good that a woman he’s just met feels so comfortable questioning his intelligence. 

Still. Sam must be starved for decent conversation, and Dean sinks a little lower into his seat. 

V.  
The bathroom light is on, but the door is unlocked. 

Dean goes in, locks the door, stands in front of the urinal, takes a piss, and when he turns around he sees the scrawny guy sitting in the corner. He’s holding a bottle of expensive-looking liquor. 

“ _Jesus fuck_ ,” Dean hisses. 

The guy just looks at him. “Sorry. Did I startle you?” 

“Where’d you get that?” 

He shrugs. “Stole it. They caught me but I talked my way out of it.” Then, a crooked smile. “I’m very persuasive. Want some?” 

God knows what’s inside it. Dean shakes his head. 

“Aw, c’mon,” the man— boy?— says, offering it out. 

He takes it. 

Sits. 

“You talk your way through the door with this, too?” 

“Yeah.” 

They sit for a few minutes, both pretending to be fascinated by the dirty urinal. At least, Dean pretends. He doesn’t know how far gone the other guy is. 

“I’m Andy,” he says. “Who are you?” 

“Dean.” He curses himself for letting it go so easily. _Get your game on, Winchester._ First with Alastair, then with— yeah. He sucks.

“Dean,” Andy repeats, nodding a bit as he takes another pull. 

The bathroom is larger than the one at the Roadhouse, but smellier— or that could be Andy, who looks as though he hasn’t taken a shower in several days. Dean fidgets a bit, wondering what the hell he’s doing here, when Andy talks again. 

“So what leaves a handsome young man like you in here?” 

He turns to glare, but all he gets is an eyebrow twitch and the bottle. What the hell. He takes another drink. “Avoiding someone. Me’n Sammy have been on our own for ‘bout a year, though. You?” 

“Mm.” He considers. “’M on the run.” 

Dean cracks a smile. “From what?” 

“Bunch of girls said I raped ‘em. ‘S _bullshit._ I said ‘sleep with me’ and they never said no. ‘Claimed I must have drugged them or something. _Bitches._ ” Dean’s now really wanting to get out of here, but he doesn’t move. It’s like he can’t. But it’s not like there’s something keeping him here, so why isn’t he getting the fuck out? “So I decided it was easiest to just get out of Guthrie. Came here because that’s where the next Amtrak was headed. Stayed.” He turns and glares at Dean’s careful expression. “Have some more,” he says, offering the bottle. 

Dean does. 

“You’re awesome, though,” Andy says. “I can tell you’re awesome.” 

The next thing Dean knows, he’s being kissed. He doesn’t mind it, despite the fact that a second ago he wanted to be as far away as possible It’s because of the liquor, and the fact that he so very rarely kisses anyone— not because of the messy brown hair and the eyes he can pretend are blue. He lets Andy pull him forward, tilts his head, and it’s good, great, even, and it’s not until the other boy pulls back, lips curved in amusement, that he realizes he said—

“This isn’t a bad rom-com, brother.” Andy picks up the bottle again. “You don’t just say the wrong name in bed.” 

“We aren’t in bed,” Dean points out. “What’s it to you?” 

“Nothing, really.” A shrug. “Who’s Cas?” 

There’s that urge to tell him, but this time Dean is able to squish it down. “None of your business.”

"Oh," says Andy, looking a bit surprised. "Drink?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [If You Want Blood (You've Got It)](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=13XwE-OZceI)


	8. Electric Funeral

I.

Dean has good instincts.

It’s one of his only real talents. 

It’s why he asked Cas to walk with him that night, why he never trusted Bela. He has good instincts, and that’s a good thing to have in this life. 

It’s Alastair that he can’t get a read on. 

Which is stupid. He knows that. He should look at this logically. He should be _running_. He knows.

He knows that because there’s a bit of a bruise on one wrist, and he can just say he banged it on something: but he knows, he knows what it is, and that’s punishment enough. He knew from the beginning that the man was pushing him, taking all his walls and stepping over them, one by one. He knows that letting Alastair tie him up was _stupid_ , because he could have done anything (he did do anything, but at least there aren’t bruises where anyone can see) and—

He rubs his wrists again. 

He wonders if what he did, what he let Alastair do, is written on his face. 

If everyone can see it. 

He knows that it was stupid. He knows that Alastair is going to ask for it again because it was obvious how uncomfortable he was with it and Alastair loves making him uncomfortable. Although this wasn’t as bad as the time that Alastair had made him get himself off, or the times that he has to top, because it’s one thing to let a guy fuck you but it’s another to— to be an active participant, it’s another to get off on it, it’s another to lower himself that far and that is when he started to become truly ashamed.

He knows that that’s a weakness that’s going to be exploited. 

But he knows other things, too. 

He knows that they’re in a hotel tonight because Sammy is sick and they can’t risk spreading it to people in shelters. He knows that the cough medicine was twenty bucks, and isn’t working. He knows that Sammy is going to have to be vaccinated before he goes into high school, he’s going to have to keep them in dinners, bus fare, and probably a hotel for a couple more nights, and he knows there’s a hole getting bigger in his backpack, and he needs a new one. He knows that Sammy is going to need shorts and shit because it’s spring and there are going to be sunny days coming up, and both of their shoes barely survived the winter. He knows that spring means more fresh food and he knows that Sam needs that, too, he brought all this nutrition shit home from eighth grade health class and Dean knows he can’t afford it but he also knows that he can’t fail Sam. He knows that he needs to stock up on first aid supplies and— 

He knows that they’re staying in this hotel room— it’s clean, and the shower is actually pretty nice, and they can control the temperature, and there’s maid service that will probably even change the pillow case that is covered in more and more snot as Sam snorts his way through a dream. 

He also knows that Sam isn’t going to school today. It’s eight in the morning, and he hasn’t woken up. 

The nice woman downstairs is no match for Dean’s extreme charms, and gives him the phone number of Sam’s school. He then goes upstairs to call— and he wasn’t lying to Cas when he said that his brother was a heavy sleeper. He’s able to dial, deepen his voice a bit, and inform them that Sam Winchester is sick. The sympathetic woman on the other end says that they hope he feels better soon. 

He better. 

Dean can get them maybe two more nights in the hotel room, but it’ll take up their entire cash reserve. 

_Yeah but it’s okay because I have a date with Alastair tomorrow._ He’s getting picked up and everything, and he should be running for the hills but he’s not because he needs the goddamn money. 

The hotel room is too clean for someone like him, and Dean feels watched. He bounces around the walls for a couple hours and takes another shower— pausing in between to be amused by Sleepy-Sammy, but he can’t do this for long. 

So he leaves him a note: _Going to check on sitch at RH. Be back soon. I’m trusting you._

He hopes trusting his brother isn’t a stupid thing to be doing. 

 

II.  
Hoodies so thin they’re almost see-through. Coats with holes in the elbows and advertising chapstick left in the pockets. Cas shifts through the bins, sorting out the wearable from the trash— unidentifiable and potentially toxic stains verses One Direction logos, things donated for the sake of donating verses people who obviously got extra credit in school for doing so, and Castiel wonders if he should go to confession for every school clothing drive he ignored. 

A small hand enters his field of vision, rubbing the fuzzy part of a North Face. The boy looks up at Cas with something akin to wonder— he can’t be more than four— and Cas smiles. Turns to the girl-woman standing next to him. 

“I’m Lisa,” she says, smiling. It’s a nice smile, Cas thinks, if slightly stiff— maybe she’s been practicing it. 

“I’m Cas.” Pause. “Tiel. Castiel.” 

“Oh!” Lisa’s face brightens, a bit more genuinely this time. “Jo and Dean’s friend?” 

Is that what he is? “I guess. What can I do for you?” 

“I’m, um.” Her smile is no longer faked. “I have a job interview. I took one of those barista classes here, I have an interview at the espresso stand at First Ave Yoga—” she stops and presses her lips together, like she thinks she’s said too much, but Cas just nods. 

“Congratulations,” he says, and he isn’t faking his own smile either. “So do you want—” 

A barrage of colorful, if unimaginative, sexist, homophobic and racial slurs cuts him off. They both turn to see Jo staring down Gordon. A few feet away is Benny, perhaps the initial target of attack: Cas isn’t sure. 

“Back off, Gord,” Jo says. “Step outside for a minute.” 

Another deluge of hate language, and he’s turning back to Benny, who’s body is locking down in preparation for a fight, and habit has Cas running over there before he can think it through. 

“Gordon!” he yells, tapping him on the shoulder. “Walk with me.” 

He gets a glare. “The fuck you telling me what to—” 

“Come _on_ , Walker.” Cas nods towards the door. “Let’s go outside for a minute.” 

“Get the _fuck_ out of my way,” Gordon says, shoving Cas backwards. He goes in the direction of the door, but just a little. Off to the side he can see Bobby, cursing his wheelchair and reaching for the phone, but Castiel shakes his head. _I got this,_ he mouths, as Gordon follows him backwards. Through the open doors and onto the path. 

Gordon’s broken around the edges, like Uriel was when his mom remarried, like Cas was the first time he ran away from his mom and asked Balthazar to please, please fight him. He’s just advancing forward, still screaming at Cas to move, ignoring that Cas does. Poorly coordinated fists that are easy enough to block, because he’s still screaming. 

“Stupid rich boy, you know what I—”

Cas doesn’t know what Gordon would because he ducks a little. Then catches a wrist, holds on, doesn’t say calm down because he knows that it’s too late for that. Bobby and Jo are holding back the crowd that’s gathered behind the glass double-doors, and the next time he moves, Cas gives them a thumbs-up. 

“—Just here because Dean thinks you’ll bend over for him if—” and he jerks his arm away, lets it swing, but Cas is able to catch the fist before it lands. “LET GO OF ME, LET GO OF ME, I’m not a fucking animal, get the _fuck_ out of my way, GET OUT—” 

Dean is now reflected in the glass. Must have just showed up, and he’s blocking the end of the pathway. Which is good, because you don’t let someone this far gone out alone, if he gets past Cas— 

“GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY WAY.” Shove. “LET GO OF ME.” Swing. “GET THE FUCK. AWAY.” 

And that’s the last coherent sentence he gets before it’s all a tangled jumble of swear words and anger at Cas, at Benny, at the world, and he flails and Cas digs his fingers into Gordon’s wrist, tries to slow him down just a bit. 

“FUCK you for trying to move— _fuck_ — can’t keep me— can’t—” block, block, shove, block, block. It’s taking all of Cas’s willpower, overriding his instincts, to not hit back. But he can’t. Can’t, because an angry sort of roar is all that’s left as Gordon drops onto the pavement, arms over his head. 

In the window, he sees Dean’s reflection coming closer. Cas turns, waves him back, before cautiously going up to Gordon. Squatting next to him. Two yells later, and he puts his hand on the other boy’s back. 

He flinches, but Cas doesn’t move. Just starts rubbing it in circles, not pausing when he shakes his head at Bobby. _Don’t call the cops._ “Breathe, if you can,” he says. Gordon is getting quieter, each groan with less enthusiasm, and it occurs to Castiel that this might have been the best case scenario. 

Ten minutes since the initial outburst and he isn’t screaming anymore. 

Not bad. 

He half turns so that he can wave Dean forward. He comes, face mashed into something that Cas thinks is a question. Probably something like _what the hell._

“Dean is going to get you some water,” Cas tells Gordon, who doesn’t respond. Cas hadn’t expected him to. But Dean nods, brushing Cas’s shoulder just a bit as he goes by and starts to wade through the small crowd. 

Twelve feet between the front door and the sidewalk. Some bushes, making the yard around the walkway semi-private. It’s unlikely that nobody saw them, but as long as they don’t call nine-one-one…. Because getting arrested is not something that would help anyone right now. 

It takes Dean thirty-two seconds to come back, and by the time he does, Gordon is twitching. But Cas pulls him up a bit, by the shoulder, and shoves the plastic cup into his hand. Because Gordon is wiped out, quiet, and he takes the cup. Drinks it. .

He doesn’t say anything. 

Cas knows this routine, though. Knows that Gordon will stand when he pulls him up. Knows that he’s probably not going to get any coherent words for a while. “We’re going to go sit on that bench over there, okay?” This time there’s a grunt. “Dean’s going to get you more water—” Dean takes the cup and disappears— “and—” he hesitates a second as they sit before pulling his iPod out of his pocket. It’s seven years old, and he feels a little bad that he doesn’t trust Gordon not to steal it. But he doesn’t trust Gordon not to steal it. “Here. Listen to a few songs before you go back inside, okay?” 

Gordon stares at it for a minute before turning it on. Cautiously sticking the earbud in one ear. Dean comes back with the water, and Cas carefully sets it on the bench next to him. Stands up. Watches, with some surprise as the other scrolls past rock and metal and selects Miles Davis, but there’s no accounting for taste. 

He backs away slowly. 

Goes back to the doors, where Dean, Jo and Bobby are all staring at him. 

Glares. “What.” 

“How the hell did you.” Jo doesn’t finish the question, but just sort of shrugs. 

“Show’s over,” Bobby says, waving everyone backwards so he can turn his wheelchair around. “Don’t ask for an encore, don’t you all have somewhere better to be? Tamara! Isaac! Hands where I can see ‘em!” 

 

III.  
The next thing Cas knows, he’s being marched upstairs to do some filing. Except, there’s no filing to be done upstairs— it’s just the office, and Jo and Dean staring at him from the other side of the desk. 

Cas is reasonably certain that Dean isn’t supposed to be in here. 

“What,” Dean says, “the hell just happened.” 

“He lost himself,” Cas says, “for a minute. It’s probably happened before.” 

“Well, we all got that.” Jo is looking at him, eyes sharp. Maybe worried. They all look so out of place up here, three teenagers playing at adulthood, playing office, and Castiel wants out. “How did you know how to do… whatever the crap you did?”

He swallows. But there’s nothing for it, really, even if this is set up like an interrogation. _Skyfall. Skyfall. Done._ “My… mother. She had, um, when I was about three, it started. Anna was six. And she started to believe— she’d have hallucinations, you know, monsters and demons and ghosts. Maybe some of it was started with my dad’s books— but then after a while he started incorporating her delusions _into_ the books, so that he could go no, honey, see, that’s just fantasy. It sounds twisted— but that helped her. He could point to a stack of papers, an outline for a future series, and she knew that was fiction. It helped her— keep a handle on things. But um… the things she…” Crack knuckles, look down. “She believed for a long time that Anna wasn’t really hers. And— for a while, she thought I was— I was her son, but somehow possessing her little brother Jimmy. Those are just… some of them. Psychosis. Is the word the doctors used. ” His fingers are twisted together, and he waits for a verdict to pass across the desk between them. He can see Jo tense, and he knows she’s considering going to him, but he doesn’t know if he wants that, either. 

“So she became his publicist, so that she could set her own schedule and not have to worry about a boss. And she’s good at it. But this way, she can travel with him, keep him in check when he’s being ridiculous, and he’ll be there for her if something happens. It hasn’t, for a long time— she’s gotten better. But she was pretty fucked up most of the time I was, you know, a kid, Anna too, so I get the sense she doesn’t want to be alone with us. She doesn’t really know how to deal with us. But we had to figure out to deal with her. And sometimes she’d completely lose it, like Gordon did. She’d be mad at us for not believing her, she’d be upset that it happened at all, she’d, whatever. We deal.” He doesn’t tell them that when he was six, Amelia almost hit Anna, demanding her real daughter back. He doesn’t tell them that sometimes she makes Chuck go out of town with her for a couple days because she thinks there’s something watching the house. He doesn’t tell them that half the time he had hated her. That he’d wanted to hit her, punch her, scream that this is real, we’re your family. 

But he couldn’t, so he’d started his first fistfight with Balthazar at age seven. 

Dean and Jo are just staring at him, faces all _sympathetic_ , and he hates it, so he shrugs and mutters that it’s not a big deal. They have it worse, after all. Dean’s mom is dead and his father is MIA, and Jo’s dad is dead, and… and, yeah. He has no right to, to do whatever it is. So he half stands. 

Considers storming out. 

But that would be— he doesn’t know how they react, his friends know that his mom has trouble in the same way that Castiel knows the fuckery Michael and Lucifer get up to, the same way he knows that Balthazar’s parents aren’t speaking to each other. They accept his scars and manpain and they deal with it in the way they know how. Dean and Jo— he isn’t sure. He doesn’t know. So then they just study him for another minute, and then Jo stands. 

“Either of you want a root beer?” 

“Sure,” Cas says. Dean shakes his head. 

Jo heads downstairs. 

“I think me and Jo are still both clocked in,” he says, wondering about the pile of clothes he hadn’t yet finished sorting and shouldn’t he go deal with that? Dean is still watching him. “Bobby can hold down the fort for a while. Anyway, Pamela and Krissy were going to come in.” 

“Oh.” 

Cas doesn’t like Pamela. Which isn’t fair of him, since he barely knows her. But the way she looks at Dean makes him want to burn her eyes out of her skull. 

He never claimed to be above such feelings. 

He looks down again at his tangled hands. 

“My dad,” Dean says after a second, “thought for sure someone murdered our mom. He had— I guess he was paranoid too, I dunno. He dragged us all across the country, thought he could find the guy by trailing storms or some shit. For all I know he was using _Helter Skelter_ as a road map. So I mean, I don’t get it, but I sort of get it.” 

Cas nods. 

Looks up, and there’s something weird in the air between them for a moment— something more than the desk, because they’re close and far apart all at once, and Cas doesn’t know what— but then Dean clears his throat, and it’s gone. 

“So,” he says. “Two weeks ‘till May first, right?”

Cas checks the date on his watch. “Right?” he echoes, confused. 

“Do you, um.” The other is looking at the wall now, at the posters advertising free counseling and queer writing groups. “So you applied to college, right?” 

Oh. 

Dean won’t look at him, but Cas answers anyway. “Yeah.” He’s been trying not to think about it. Been meaning to sit down with his parents and have a College Talk, but— “Yeah, I’m—” 

Jo comes in, a bottle in each hand and a third wedged between them. “I got you one because you were just being nice when you said no,” she tells Dean, who snorts but takes it anyway. “What’s up?” 

“I was just asking Cas about his college plans,” Dean says, with a large smile and good amount of cheer. 

Cas pops the top off the bottle. 

“Oh, yeah.” Jo sits down, and once again it’s two against one. “It’s the most annoying conversation starter ever. I always avoided it.” And now she’s looking at Castiel expectantly, and he wants to crawl away and die. 

“I got into, um. Evergreen, Gonzaga, Seattle U…” he takes a drink and wishes it was alcoholic. “A school in Illinois and one in Kansas. Bethany and Bradley. I’ve got, um, family in Salina and Lebanon.” And they’re both small, religious colleges that his parents had approved of. Mostly he’d toured them because they’d been visiting family in the area and it seemed like the thing to do. Got to apply out of state, to feel like he has options. 

Because he’s not really going to leave Washington. Balthazar has settled on Evergreen, which is only in Olympia, and Uriel is leaning towards the U, and Gabriel is still undecided and Castiel could go to Gonzaga— Anna goes to Gonzaga— but then he’d be five hours away from Uriel, six hours away from Balth, and— five hours away from Dean and Jo, and that matters a lot now. 

For some reason. 

He’s known them, what, three months? 

Cas studies his drink a little longer. When he looks up, the other two are making very different, yet equally unreadable expressions. 

“I, for one,” Jo says, “am so done with academia. Done done done done.” 

The awkward silence continues to be awkward. 

“I could just live at home,” Cas says. “Make money playing World of Warcraft. Maybe grow some weed. I doubt my parents would even notice.” 

But in light of what he’s said about his mom that’s not even slightly amusing, so he just stares at the other two until they look away. 

“Sam’s sick,” Dean says. “We have a hotel tonight. Want to come watch TV?” 

Cas looks at Jo, who just sort of snorts. “I’ll sign you out,” she says. “I don’t know what you get up to on your own time.” There’s far too much implied there (And Sam is going to be in the hotel room so he’s _not thinking about Dean kneeling in front of him,_ not at all) so Castiel contents himself with pulling a face and following Dean out of the room. 

“I got Sammy that cough syrup thing. It’s not helping,” Dean explains as they go out the front (and Cas doesn’t look around to see who’s watching them. Gordon is still sitting on the bench, earbuds in and eyes closed.) “And I figure your house is like a pharmacy, right? What do I get?” 

“Umm.” Cas continues following Dean as they enter a Bartell’s and make for the medicine aisle. “Sudafed? Is watching TV a quid pro quo for my medical advice?” 

“A quid what?” Dean’s hand is up his shirt now, and it takes a second to realize that he’s pulling a bill out from somewhere. 

“Um… payment, exchange of services, whatever.” 

“Sure, if that makes you feel better.” 

How the crap is this his life. 

 

IV.  
“You _never_ watched cartoons as a kid?” Cas has never been able to see a strong family resemblance between Sam and Dean, but there’s a one now as they both gape at him. “ _Never?_ ” Sam repeats. 

“…I saw some Scooby-Doo movies?” 

Dean points to the bed next to him. “Sit,” he orders, and they’re watching cartoons and Sam is in the room. He sits. 

“But the road runner chases the coyote and an anvil gets dropped on his head,” Dean says. “It’s a— thing.”

“I guess I never thought it was funny.” 

He assumes that Sam is scowling too, but they’re on opposite sides of him now. He looks at Dean. “It’s _hilarious_ ,” Dean says, without smiling. 

“Okay.” 

“What’s your password?” 

It had taken Sam all of ten seconds to get a hold of his phone. 

“That’s what you get for not constantly attending your suicide bombers,” Dean says. “It times out.” 

“Um…” it takes him a second to picture the keyboard, because he’s not about to tell Sam the letters. “Two-eight-seven-nine.” 

There’s a pause as Sam enters the code, and Dean swears at the remote until he finds the appropriate channel. 

Cas turns back to the TV and prepares for hilarity. Tries not to be aware of how goddamn _close_ Dean is, and does he _know_ what he’s doing, and Sam coughs a lot but it’s fine because there’s barely any dialogue.

He ends up telling Dean that it’s all a metaphor for God, just to see his indignant expression.

 

V.  
Castiel is now used to having Naomi’s eyes track him out the door, her pointed questions in class, her presentations about homeless youth in Seattle (because apparently that ties in with Jesus or something,) and the way she stares at him while she does so. He doesn’t know why she’s so obsessed. 

He doesn’t know if he wants to know why she’s so obsessed. 

He just smiles and nods and sometimes makes a point of texting someone as he walks out the door. Just for kicks. (It’s not always Jo, but he lets Naomi guess.) 

Theology is right before lunch today, and Gabriel laughs as he approaches their table. “You look properly freaked out.”

Cas throws himself into his seat. “I don’t know what her deal is. She’s just— unsettling.” 

“The word you are looking for is creepy, brother,” Uriel says. He takes one very dignified bite of apple, and it squirts all over his face. “Maybe she… you know.” 

Castiel doesn’t know. 

“Maybe she’s jealous.” 

“Of?” 

Uriel raises his eyebrows. “Your _girlfriend._ ”

Oh. Cas can’t quite find the appropriate amount of _ew gross_ to express, so he settles by pantomime-vomiting. Gabriel thumps him on the back, looking equally appalled. 

“That’s sick, man. Did not need that. Eugh. Did _not_ need.” 

Uriel looks pleased with himself. “Speaking of gross things,” he says, “ _The Evil Dead_ is playing at the Oaktree on Saturday night. We should go.” 

Cheeseburgers are God’s greatest gift, even cold, and Cas makes sure to chew and swallow his properly before speaking. “The Oaktree is that one on Aurora, right?” 

“Yeah.” 

Gabe is already on his iPhone, looking up maps. 

“And you expect us to believe that there is _no_ ulterior motive for wanting to be on Aurora on a Saturday night.” Seattle has a lot of Bad Parts of Town, but Aurora Avenue has a reputation all its own. Cas doesn’t know if there are _really_ prostitutes on every corner, but— 

“It’s not like we’re going to hire a hooker,” Gabe says. “Give us some credit.” 

“I never give you credit.” Cas takes another bite of burger, and hopes that nobody is actually listening to them right now. 

Uriel holds out his pinky finger. “Just window shopping,” he says. “Promise.” 

Either Jo or Anna would kill him in a burst of righteous feminist rage. There’s a reason that a good part of Castiel’s childhood was spent trying to keep Uriel and Anna away from each other. He doesn’t say anything, just looks at Balthazar to transmit his quiet disapproval. 

Balthazar continues munching down his subway. His only contribution is to glance at Gabriel’s heap of sweets. “That is not a real lunch.” 

“You do not have a real face,” Gabe says. 

They frown at each other. 

“That wasn’t even clever,” Balth starts, but then stops. 

Maybe he smells it too. Cas looks around. Crowley probably doesn’t wear perfume, but there’s an air of— unease that precedes his arrival. And, ah. There he is. 

“Hey, Cas,” he says, walking by without looking around. 

Cas is pretty sure that there was a wink thrown in there, too. 

“The fuck was that about?” Uriel asks. 

Balthazar just glares. “I hate that guy.” 

“Me, too.” 

The cheeseburger doesn’t taste so good anymore. 

“So Cas, you gonna have a car this weekend?” 

It takes him a minute to remember. “Yeah, the ‘rents are leaving tomorrow morning for…” it’s the big tour, because _Lazarus Rising_ is finally being released, and that means signings all over the states. This is apparently different (and in different places) than the _No Rest For The Wicked_ tour three months ago. Chuck had also talked about staying a few extra days somewhere to check out abandoned churches. 

Gabe takes a dramatic slurp of slushy before answering. “Cool. Lucy’s in town, I can jack his ride. I’ll pick Uri up, meet you and Balth down there? I got a track meet up near his house anyway. Which you guys would go to if you were real friends. Cas got a girlfriend at one, remember?” 

“She’s _not_ —” he isn’t sure this point is worth arguing anymore, but he feels he should object on Jo’s behalf anyway. Just in case word got out and she really wanted to be dating someone, or something. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know if Jo has ever dated anyone. Hooked up with guys, yeah— he wonders if it means something that all his friends have a chronic inability to do the whole ‘relationship’ gig. Gabriel had made some valiant efforts— Kali had been his on-again off-again for ages, and Samantha had lasted at least a week— but the others…

Huh. 

“This isn’t middle school,” Uriel says. “You don’t have to lie about who you—” eyebrow wiggle— “like.” 

_And yet you’re still a virgin_. It’s a side effect of Uriel's general disdain for everyone but his closest friends. But then it occurs to Cas that they don’t know he’s _not_ , and so— 

The bell rings. 

“Hey Cas, did you do your homework for Ness?” 

Cas stares at Gabe for a few extra seconds. “That’s _next period._ ” 

“…Your point?” 

“You can’t possibly copy an entire homework assignment in the next three minutes.” 

“Challenge accepted,” Gabriel says, and starts sprinting for the history room. 

There’s nothing left to do but run after him.

 

VI.  
Despite what the posters said, _The Evil Dead_ was not the most terrifying film Castiel had ever experienced. It was creepy— demonic possession, gratuitous gore, whole shebang, but it had nothing on _Smurfs._

“I think Gabe is tailgating you,” Balthazar says, twisting around to raise his finger at the car behind them. “Seriously. He’s like, a foot away.” 

Cas speeds up a bit. “If he messes up Lucifer’s Chevy, he’s going to be dismembered.” 

“You’re not worried about your own car?” 

A laugh. “This piece of junk? My dad would probably be happy. If it was Gabe’s fault, anyway, and our insurance paid up.” 

“This car isn’t so bad.” Balth looks around it. Pokes at the seat. “I mean, this looks suspiciously like a bloodstain, but—” 

Cas freezes. “What?” 

“Right here. I was kidding— you okay, man?” 

Shit, but it probably _is_ , and what if— he takes a deep breath. “Fine,” he says. “Just… you know, some Sumerian prophecy might come to get us or something.” 

“Admit it. That movie freaked you out.” Balthazar drops his head against the window, stares out at the street. It’s quiet for a minute, then— “Hey, isn’t that Dean?” 

Cas turns. 

Yeah, that’s Dean. Leaning up against the side of some crap motel, looking around, hands in his pockets. Slightly hunched over, and didn’t they have a hotel room for tonight, it wasn’t on Aurora, and some math goes off in Castiel’s head and he’s turning the corner. Switching on his hazard lights and pulling over. 

It takes a second to realize that he’s sweating. Hands shaking. 

“Get out of the car,” he says quietly. 

Balthazar frowns. “What are you—” 

“Gabe should pull in behind us any second—” there he is. “Get a ride home with him. _Please._ ” His voice might shake a little on the last word, because he’s remembering Dean— _please, let me_ and things are all coming together, making sense, and no, no, no no no no no. 

Balthazar puts a hand on his shoulder for a second, then gets out of the car. 

And Cas wastes no time, turning around, pulling probably two illegal U-turns before hitting the breaks. 

Dean takes a couple steps closer to the car, bending down to see who’s inside, and Cas’s stomach twists up just that much more. 

He rolls down the window. 

Dean’s eyes widen, and he pulls back. 

“Get in,” Cas says flatly. He’s proud of how steady, commanding his voice is. 

“The f—” 

“Get.” He repeats. “In.” 

Dean looks around one more time, and then gets in. 

The gas pedal is weak under his foot. 

“Weird place to hang out,” he says. “What with you having a hotel room, and your brother being sick, and all.” 

He’s sure that Dean is looking at him, but he keeps his eyes on the road. 

“Cas.” 

“Isn’t it?” his voice doesn’t waver. And maybe he’s wrong, maybe he’s—

“I have to, Cas,” Dean says, and there’s an age of exhaustion in his voice. And it’s almost enough to make Castiel forgive him. 

Almost. 

 

VII.  
They pull up in front of the familiar house. 

“Inside,” Cas says, and Dean listens because— he doesn’t know why he’s doing anything, at this point. 

But at least they probably shouldn’t have their dramatic falling out on the street. 

He’s slightly surprised that he gets inside the house and turns around without a word being said: Castiel still looks calm as he closes the door and flicks on the light. 

And then he punches Dean in the jaw. 

He doesn’t have time to react before his shoulder is grabbed and he’s being thrown into a wall and yeah, he probably deserves this, he knew it was only a matter of time and Cas is going to tell Jo but— 

“How _dare_ you—” 

Cas doesn’t have any say in his life, not really— “How _dare_ I?” Dean pushes as well, gets Cas a few steps away. “I do what I have to, I’m not—” 

He lands back against the wall. The picture frames rattle a bit. “That time you brought Sam here overnight.” In one part of his mind, Dean wonders how Cas expects to have this conversation if he can’t say _that time you gave me a blow job_. “Was that you— _paying rent?_ ” 

Oh. 

Dean has no response to that. Not the right one, at least, and he looks away, which is a mistake, because now he’s getting shoved again. There’s nowhere back for him to go, but it’s not deterring Castiel any— fists still flying— and not for the first time he understands how _terrifying_ the other boy is, why The Angel is so respected. 

“You reduced me to one of _them?_ ” He’s not yelling, but Dean wishes he would. The cold fury is worse. “I am not—”

“I didn’t see you _complaining_ ,” Dean snaps. Wondering why they aren't talking about the more obvious questions. 

“I—” Cas takes a few steps back. His arms drop, and his entire body seems to fold in on itself. Collapse under his hoodie. “Don’t you get that we’re not keeping a tally? We’re _friends_ , Dean, it’s goddamn insulting that you think you have to—” 

“Friends?” 

Now it’s Dean grabbing Cas, Dean shoving Cas against the wall, getting up in his personal space. Rolling his hips forward, because he’s not stupid, he knows what it means when you finger yourself picturing someone, when you jack off to them, he knows how Cas feels about him too because he has to be able to see that stuff. Cas hisses as their groins come in contact, and his head hits wood with a quiet tap. 

“Friends?” Dean repeats, grinding a little harder. “We’re not _friends_ , Cas, even I know that. Friends don’t feel like react like _this_ to each other.” Because they’re both getting hard. Cas’s mouth is now open a bit, and he’s tensing like he’s going to push Dean away, like he’s going to start yelling some more, and Dean doesn’t want to hear it, because it’s nothing he hasn’t already thought himself, and so he kisses him. 

It’s poorly timed, maybe, and it’s not right on target. A little to the left, and so he moves, tongue flicking a trail around Cas’s lips—and then his mouth is _there_ under Dean’s and so goddamn good and he’s pushing forward, tongues and teeth and Cas’s hoodie being flung off somewhere—

Cas shoves him backwards, and this time he loses his balance. He ends up half sprawled over the sofa, half on the floor. Not the most dignified of positions, but he’s distracted from this by Cas’s expression— halfway to wrecked, eyes wild, with something else Dean can’t name. 

And then his head is hitting the floor, and Cas is straddling him. Hands on his shoulders, holding him down. 

“What are you trying to do, Dean?” 

Prove a point? Forget everything? Make Cas forget everything? He doesn’t know. He does know that since he isn’t going to be there tonight, Alastair will have no sure way of contacting him again— he knows that that avenue might have closed for good. He knows that he doesn’t know if he’s relieved or scared. He knows that he has a boner and Cas has a boner, and he arches up into it, as best he can. 

He knows that he doesn’t understand what’s happening on Cas’s face, he knows Cas made it far too easily onto his list of Most Important People, he knows—

“What do you _think_ I’m trying to do?” he gasps, pushing his hips up again. 

“I can’t—” Castiel’s hand is on his face, now, just barely touching his cheek, and Dean wants to press into it but he won’t let himself fall that far. “I can’t be your— guardian angel, Dean, I can’t be your salvation, just like you aren’t my manic pixie dream boy, this won’t, I—” can’t take away from the fact that Dean is used up, broken, dirty, and he never felt like that before, not when he was sucking dicks, and he hates that Alastair brought him to this— but it wasn’t Alastair, was it, because Dean _chose_ — 

“I pretended he was you sometimes,” he says. “There’s only ever been— Alastair was the only one who ever, you know, the rest of it was just—” he makes a random gesture that he hopes gets the point across. How can he judge Cas for not being able to say what he can’t either? “I’d _suck their dicks_ ,” there we go, “when I needed the cash, but he was the only one who ever made me— make is the wrong word— got me to— because I needed the money, dammit, Cas, you know that,” and this is goddamn surreal, and how are they having this talk with Cas straddling him like this because all it does is make Dean _want_ even more— “and there were times I’d pretend he was you, to get through it, there were times I tried to get myself ready thinking of you, and _please_ , Cas.” He’s pathetic. 

“Did he ask you to beg?” Cas asks quietly. He’s still tracing Dean’s face. Eyes darting from Dean’s eyes to his ears to his nose to his mouth and back around like he’s trying to find an answer, or maybe it’s Dean that’s looking, Dean that’s falling apart. 

“Sometimes,” he says. 

Cas looks crushed. “I’m so sorry.” He’s barely whispering now. “I’m so sorry, I should have—” 

“You shouldn’t have done anything,” Dean says. Grinds up again, just a bit. “Not your job, not your—” 

But then Cas is kissing him. Gently, now— sucks Dean’s lip into his mouth, rocks his hips down, and, _oh._ “I’m sorry,” he whispers, “I’m sorry, I’m—” 

“Don’t be sorry.” He pushes, rolls them over. But Cas is still hesitant, like he’s— “don’t hold back, Cas. Please.” He’s said that word too much recently, and he tries to stop. _Kiss me like you fight me._ He doesn’t say that bit, of course, but that’s what he gets when he’s slammed onto his back and _fuck_ , Cas can kiss. Hand digging into Dean’s shoulder, tongue twisting around his, and they’re moving, breathing together, and Dean’s kissed people before, one night stands in one night towns, sometimes he’s kissed them twice, but this— 

They grind together again, and he’s dangerously close to coming in his pants.

Cas pulls away, gasping— and then he makes that _noise_ again, the half-growl, half-whine, and Dean twists his head to one side, offering his throat. He’s expecting hickeys, he’s expecting bruising, so it’s almost a surprise when it’s just light teeth scrapping along the line of his neck, a tongue going back over them. A surprise, but _fuck_ , that area should not be as sensitive as it is. And then he’s pulling at Cas’s pants, and Cas’s hips are wiggling as he tries to get out of them—

“Couch,” Dean manages. And Cas nods. Stands, but one of his legs is still caught in his pants, and he stumbles— which is Dean’s opening to push him back on the sofa and yank the offending denim off his foot. Then, because he has the opening, he pulls Cas’s boxers off as well. 

It takes longer than it should have to get his own pants off, with Cas lying half naked on the sofa, hair and eyes wild. But then they are, and he’s climbing on top of him, and there’s no fabric in between them now and his eyes nearly roll back in his head at the feeling of it. 

He’d prepped himself for Alastair earlier and, God help him, he _needs._

“Cas,” he says quietly. “Cas, can I— can you—” 

Castiel nods, desperate, like he doesn’t know what he’s agreeing to, but Dean digging around in the pocket of his abandoned pants is probably a clue. Condom, KY, and it’s an unpleasant reminder of where he was planning to go tonight but this works, this works. He offers them. Hopes his plea isn’t as evident on his face as it feels. 

“Dean,” Cas says, and nobody’s voice should sound like that. “Are you—” 

“I fingered myself open, thinking of you,” he says. “In the men’s bathroom, at Starbucks— I imagined you in there with me. I imagined opening myself while I sucked you down, getting that noise that you make, because I knew what that looked like, I knew what your face looked like when you came and God, Cas, don’t think it was just a quid quo whatever because I jerked off to that image for _weeks_ —” and there’s the sound he was talking about, and he rolls the condom down Cas’s cock in one quick jerk. Covers it in probably half the bottle of lube but he doesn’t care because he’s crawling up Cas’s body, sucks the skin under his ear for a minute before whispering: “ _Please. Let me._ ” 

Cas melts under his hands, sinking back into the cushions, eyes falling closed as his hips twitch. 

Dean drops down on him— slowly, because he can do that slowly now. He’s loose enough that it’s not uncomfortable, and he rolls his hips around a couple times, looking for— _yes_. 

The muscles in his neck seem to give out as his head falls back, air all leaving his lungs at once. It takes him a few moments to be able to focus on Castiel’s face, and he almost loses it again, because his eyes are wide, mouth half open, and he’s staring at Dean like—

Dean rolls forwards. Speeds up, and drops down to kiss Cas again (because his mouth was open and it needed to be kissed _right the fuck now_ ,) and so he’s unprepared for being rolled over, for his legs to be pushed up over Cas’s shoulders, and coherency is for other people because he will never, ever get enough of this. He’s falling away, as Cas rocks into him, and he clenches down— a silent request for _more_ , _harder_ , and Cas obliges. 

Sometimes it seems like there are more fists than words between them, that all they’ve ever been is two bodies coming together. 

Maybe Cas fucking his brains out is the natural extension of that. 

But then he has a dick against his prostate and rational thinking is gone again. It’s just _Cas Cas Cas_ and he’s clawing at the cushions under him, at the skin under Castiel’s shirt, and the softness around his eyes even as he’s nailing Dean into the sofa and Dean clenches down and Cas does a twist thing that just— _CasCasCasCas_ and he’s coming, Christ, he hasn’t even touched himself and he’s coming all over Castiel’s t-shirt, curling up and vision whiting out, and he regrets that, because he hears the choking sound, but he doesn’t see Cas’s face. 

Just feels his body collapse. 

Dean doesn’t bother to get his legs off the other’s shoulders. He’s comfy here, dammit. 

They breathe for a few minutes. 

He isn’t used to this part.

Cas slowly pulls away from him, lowers his legs. Pulls off the condom. Ties it in a knot and then stares at it. 

The air has turned to glass, and Dean doesn’t know if he should speak. If he should break the spell. 

He does. 

“You gonna throw that out?” 

A half-laugh. “That would require standing.” Pause. “Where are my pants?” 

“I dunno.” Dean waves a hand. “I think behind the sofa somewhere.” 

Cas slumps back against him. “Did we just— on my parents couch—” 

“I think so,” Dean says brightly. The implications there are too intense, too scary. “My ass says so, anyway.” Then— “Let me use your shower and you can fuck my mouth in the morning.” 

It’s the wrong thing. 

He knows that as the words come out, even though he doesn’t know why— Cas is pulling away from him, climbing over the sofa to grab his jeans. All his muscles are tense, the way they are before a fight, and no, no, that’s wrong, that’s— 

“Is sex just a currency to you?” he asks. His voice is empty, now, none of the heat and passion of earlier. “Were you just paying me back for something else?” 

“What—” Dean’s not following this, and frowns. “I—” 

“What did we just do, Dean?” there’s an edge of panic in there, and Dean scrambles, scrambles looking for the right answer. What they’d just done was have rough, fucking _fantastic_ sex, but what does Cas want, there are so many nuances he’d never learned— and words have never been what he’s good at, it’s the actions, and they’d just _finished_ the actions so how can Cas not know— what does he— and so Dean offers the easy out. 

“We fucked,” he says carefully. 

“Right.” It’s too quick, and it comes with Cas pulling his pants on even faster, motions becoming jerkier. “Right. I— I have to—” he grabs his hoodie off the ground, and stumbles towards the door. Dean can only watch, blink a few times, and then he realizes what’s happening and he’s on his feet but the door’s open and he’s naked from the waist down so he gets his own jeans and is trying to put them on and run at once. He ends up hopping towards the door, but he’s no match for—

“Cas, wait!” 

Cas, who’s always been a faster runner, who’s sprinting down the sidewalk. It’s not the controlled, tucked in fighting run but the run of the desperate, and Dean trips and by the time he looks up Cas has hit the intersection and disappeared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Electric Funeral](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YJExGBYVu6Y)


	9. Bohemian Rhapsody

I.

The phone rings for too long. Then, Jo, tired, but awake enough to be annoyed.— “The world had better be ending, Castiel.” 

He hesitates a second, but he can do this. “It’s Dean.” 

“Well. Then the world really is— what’s going on?” 

He stalls for a little more. Trying to arrange the words in his head. “Cas ran off,” he says finally. “And I’m worried, what with the hit out and all—” 

A shuffling on the other end. Dean presses his head against the couch pillow. “Okay.” Pause. “What the hell happened?” 

“Does it matter? I—” 

“ _Yes_ it obviously matters. What did you do?” 

_I climbed on top of him and then let him fuck me._ “I sucked dicks for cash.” Because she doesn’t need to know the whole story. And it would be better if he could see her face, see how done she is with him, but he can’t, and so he continues. “And Cas found out— he came from the Oaktree, I guess that’s why he was on Aurora—” 

“What’s the Oaktree?” 

He can’t read anything in her voice. 

“A movie theater.” 

“Well how the hell would I— okay. Continue.” 

Dean recounts the story of being collected, of going back to Cas’s house, of them fighting— 

“Fist fight or yelling fight?” 

“Yelling fight became fist fight.” And then they’d had sex right here on this sofa. The thought is too much, all of a sudden, and he stands. Stumbles towards and then into Castiel’s room, and it’s a little better. “And then we— stopped fighting.” 

Another pause. 

“When you say stopped fighting,” Jo says slowly. Then— “Did you two—” 

“Had sex,” Dean supplies. 

A snort. “Wait, are you serious?” 

“Very.” Maybe she isn’t supposed to know this, maybe Cas hasn’t told her, maybe he’s ruined everything—

“Full on—” 

“Yeah.”

“Not just—” 

“No.” 

“ _Fuck._ ” There’s more banging, a rustling, and it sounds as though she’s changing her clothes. 

“Yes.” 

“Not funny.” Another dull roar, fabric over the microphone. “Top or bottom?” 

He’d just been studying Cas’s bedspread, how boring and plain it was, when she asks, and he might have gagged a bit. “Excuse me? How the fuck is that relevant?” 

“It’s very relevant. On both your mental states, on how fast Cas could be running, and since _I’m_ not having any sex I should at least hear sordid details about yours.” 

He disregards the last two. “I, um. Did the thing.” 

“Bottomed?” 

“From the top,” he adds helpfully. “At first. Jesus Christ, Jo. You’re not even supposed to know what buttfucking _is_.” Cas’s room is too painful, and so he closes his eyes. Focuses on Jo’s breathing in his ear in the vain hope that she’ll somehow be able to make all this fuckery right. Pretends that Cas is sitting next to him and everything is fine. 

“And when did he run?” 

Yeah. Okay. He gives as paired down a summary of that as he can, and the exact words they’d used are one now, lost under layers of panic, but he summarizes, and he hears her hiss through the phone line. 

“What the _fuck_ , Dean.” 

“What? I was— I didn’t know what he want—” 

An intake of breath, a voice carefully kept down. “Are you really that blind? God. I don’t want to look at you right now.” 

“You aren’t look—”

There’s the creak of hinges, the sound of traffic, and she must be outside now. “Listen to me,” she snaps, and goddamn it’s scarier than he wants to admit. “Cas does not have fuckbuddy feelings about you. Why is completely beyond me, and if you’ll want to know the exact nature you’ll have to ask him, but—” she stops. “Fuck it. You’re on his phone, right? Get me the phone numbers, of, um— Anna, Balthazar, Gabriel, Uriel.” 

“Give me a second.” He doesn’t really know how to work these things, but he manages to get to the contact list without hanging up. Jo has to talk him through turning on speaker phone, and then he reads them, and he doesn’t know what’s going on in his gut but it’s curling up on itself and for a split second he wants to die. 

“Okay.” A few deep breaths on the other end. “Jesus _Christ_ , Dean.” Then— “Did you mean it?” 

With the lights off, Cas’s room looks like a collection of dark smudges. “Mean what?” 

“When you said you were just fucking.” 

Oh. 

“Well Jo, if you wanted to have a sleepover, you should have brought the nail polish—” 

“Dean!” A car door slams. 

“What the hell are you doing?” 

“I’m stealing my mom’s car and driving down to the Roadhouse, where I will wake up Benny, send him to your hotel room to stay with Sam while you sit your ass in that house in case Cas comes back. I’m going to call all of Cas’s friends while I do so, which means I will be on my cellphone in a stolen car, so if I get a ticket you are goddamn paying me back. Now _did you mean it?_ ” 

“How do I explain to Sam—”

“The truth would probably get you in the least amount of trouble.”

Dean would hide his face in Castiel’s pillow, except then he wouldn’t be able to talk. He will in a minute. In a minute he’ll just sit and— and— think? He can’t do that, can’t right now. “I don’t think so,” he says, quiet. “I— I don’t know what—” he doesn’t understand what he feels for Cas, doesn’t understand why it feels like he’s dying right now or why he’s abandoning Sammy just to sit here, he doesn’t _understand_ — “I don’t think so but I don’t know what I.” 

Jo sighs. An engine starts. “Hang tight,” she says. “And do not leave unless I tell you otherwise.”

“Yes ma’am.” 

“I’m going to forgive you. It just might not be for a little bit.” 

“Okay.” Everything’s falling falling away and all Dean wants to do is go back half an hour to when Cas was here, he wants— everything, and he’s not allowed to want anything. 

“Because I love you but I love Cas too and I think he might be my best friend and you have no idea—” 

Well if there’s one thing he’s good at, aside from sucking dick and fucking up, it’s the ability to hold a grudge against himself. 

Dean just snorts.

“ _Stay. There._ ” 

“Not going anywhere.” 

“Flush everything in his medicine cabinet, to be safe, and _do not take_ any of it.” 

“Got it.” 

She hangs up. 

Dean sits on the bed for a few more minutes, and since he doesn’t know what else to do, he turns the light on. 

Castiel’s room looks a lot like it did the last time here was here. Books, junk on the floor. But at the same time, most of that stuff is barely moved. As though he hasn’t really been living in there at all. Dean sighs, and thinks of cluttered rooms, back before everything. Rooms that were frozen with the words his parents wouldn’t say to each other. A master bedroom that was for mom on Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays and Saturdays, and for dad the other days. 

And then she’d died, and John had gone on a crazy cross country search, convinced that the monster— or whatever he thought it was— had ended their happy lives. Because suddenly he was never allowed to fall out of love with Mary Campbell. 

Sometimes, Dean wishes that John had died instead. 

He hates himself for thinking that. Hates himself, as he sits here in a room in which he doesn’t belong. Hates himself because part of him wouldn’t trade their fucked up lives for anything, because there’s been some shit, but he’s seen more of America than anyone he knows, met more interesting people— he used to have a notebook that he’d write down their names and stories in, but he’d discarded it long ago, or maybe it had gotten lost— and he doesn’t know how he could give up Benny and Victor and Bobby and Jo and Cas—

Cas—

He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes again. 

It doesn’t make anything easier. 

 

II.

When Cas had woken up to an empty bed the morning after Gabriel’s party, he hadn’t been upset. It wasn’t even a stretch to say he was relieved. He’d had sex with some guy, it had been fun, and that was the end of that. They hadn’t exchanged names or numbers. Cas didn’t have anyone he could brag to about losing his v-card, and so he’d gone on with his life. 

He doesn’t understand why this can’t be the same. 

He _knows_ why, of course. He knows the logical differences. Dean isn’t some faceless stranger, and the sex— the _fucking_ — wasn’t meaningless. Not really. But it— he doesn’t understand— 

He’s so stupid.

He’d thought giving Dean what he wanted— liar, liar, pants on fire, what they _both_ wanted, because he’d wanted it so much— would make things better. Fuck and get over it, right? Half the time their fights were more like fucking anyway, so— 

_Fucking._

He remembers Dean, spread out below him, and he remembers the way he’d looked, for a few seconds there.

And so he runs. 

It’s probably dangerous. He’s unarmed. He doesn’t know who knows his face. He doesn’t know if he looks different in, in a hoodie verses a trench coat. He doesn’t really know anything but that he has to get away, _away_ , and he really wishes he’d brought something with him. He’d take anything right now. Pills, booze, smack, speed. 

But he can’t go back to his house now. It would ruin the whole point of leaving, which was to get away from Dean. Clear his head. Rationalize this entire evening so that he and Dean can go on as they were before, just like he’d done with the blowjob, just like he’d done with everything else. 

Because he’s sure that this pain is nothing compared to the pain he’d feel if Dean was out of his life for good. 

And when did that happen, when did this kid he’d known for months become more important than the people he’d known for eighteen years?

And why is he standing outside the Asian Art museum, where he’d lain in the grass laughing with Jo, where anyone can see him? 

He knows that this isn’t actually the most dangerous area ever, that it’s unlikely he’ll be seen by anyone who will have a problem with him, but he retreats anyway. Climbs the cedar nearby, branches wide and strong and bent in improbable shapes. Branches that had been shaped to grow away from the street.

Five feet. Ten feet. Fifteen feet. 

He’d climbed this tree so many times when he was a kid. When he wanted to hide. When he and the others played Assassin in the park. When things at home were too loud for him to sit and read. 

It’s been a long time. 

He wedges himself in the V between branch and trunk, and sits. 

Closes his eyes. 

Waits. 

He doesn’t know what he’s waiting for, but it comes anyway. Around the time his butt is getting sore and he’s considering moving. Around the time he hears a rustle down below, and even though he’s far too sore to hold his own in a fight, he grabs onto a branch that he’s pretty sure he can break off. 

And then Balthazar has managed to work himself onto a limb across and a couple feet up from him. He sits, brushes off his shirt, rocks slightly so he can brush off his ass, and then looks expectant. 

“You are the most depressed looking person ever to wear a Life is Good sweatshirt,” he says. 

Cas stares at him. “What the hell are you doing here?” 

“I got a phone call,” he says. “From one Joanna Beth, who said that you were missing and in a state of distress and I needed to help find you. Speaking of—” he digs his phone out of his pocket and presumably starts firing off text messages. “I’m gonna call off the squad.” 

None of this makes any sense.

“What.” 

“Well she called me because she remembered that I live closest, but if I didn’t find you in another twenty minutes she was going to alert Gabe and Urie—” 

Cas forgets to feel sorry for himself at the absurdity of events. “ _What._ ” 

Balthazar keeps staring, and Cas has to work to keep eye contact. 

“How did Jo—” 

“Apparently Dean called her,” he says. “And got our numbers off your cellphone.”

Because he’d told Sam the password. 

“Why?”

“Well, something about there being a hit out on you and recklessness and drugs. She wasn’t very clear. Scared the holy hell out of me, though. Thought you might be suicidal or something, bro.” 

Castiel looks away. Suicide hadn’t been an option that he’d considered, he’s not that dramatic, but— Dean had called Jo? Did that mean— do they all know—

He realizes that he doesn’t care if they do. 

“Why did Dean call Jo, Cassie?” 

“What, you want to talk feelings?” And it’s not okay that he hears Dean in his voice when he says that, not okay that he’s gotten so used to _showing_ how he feels, with flying fists and daring heroics. That the idea of explaining, of using words, feels so foreign. 

“I want to know what the hell’s been going on with you,” Balthazar says. “You’ve been weird for months.” 

Yeah. 

Cas rolls onto his back, straddling the tree trunk, and leaning his head against the sloped branch. If they’re going to do this the therapist way, then they’re going to goddamn do it the therapist way. 

“I love Dean,” he says, because he doesn’t know how else to say it. Because it’s true. Because it doesn’t matter. 

“I was afraid of that.” But Balthazar’s voice is far gentler than the words sound. “What did he do?” 

And of course that’s the problem, isn’t it? Cas stares at the branches above him for another few seconds. But it doesn’t matter what Balthazar knows, and he has no reason to keep it from him now. “We had sex.” 

Silence. 

“What kind of sex?” 

“Does it matter?” 

“No, but I’m curious.” 

“Sex,” Cas says, managing to make his voice as detached as he feels. “Sex. Penis. Anus. Whole shebang.” 

“Oh,” Balthazar says, sounding faintly impressed. He shouldn’t be impressed. But then it drops into the quiet anger, the _who did the thing, I will hurt them_ tone Cas has taken up when he goes after Raphael, when he yells at his parents on Anna’s behalf, when he’s helped Gabriel get revenge on Michael and Luce. “And he didn’t— I’m sorry, Cassie.” 

Cas shrugs. 

“Better people than you have fallen for a hot man’s bullshit,” he continues. “It’s not—” 

“I didn’t fall for the bullshit.” He doesn’t know how to say what he needs to say, but he says it anyway, and hopes the tangle of words make some sort of sense. “Don’t tell me he’s not worth it, I’m not a teenage girl after a break-up.” He’s a teenage boy after a rejection. Whatever. “I fell for the— not bullshit. The way he tries, how much he loves his brother and his makeshift family, his _stupid_ references to movies from past centuries because aside from remakes he hasn’t seen anything new, the way he— the way we can fight together and against each other and the—” the way he makes everything safe, makes everything better, the world he’s let Castiel become a part of and the way one touch can warm him up and Cas _hates_ it. “I love him,” he repeats, and then snorts, because “how stupid is that? Why are we so selfish, Balthazar? I love _him_ , why do I need him to love me back? Why do I expect anything from him, when all it is is I—” Why can’t he just love him selflessly, like— like those people in stories who love and help from a distance, Eponine and the angel in his father’s books and— and— 

“I dunno,” Balthazar says. “Nobody seems to know.” There’s a weird tone in his voice that Cas can’t identify, but he doesn’t really try. 

“Whatever.” He wonders if he expected Balthazar to have a stronger reaction to the ‘Castiel likes dick’ announcement. But then, Balthazar has probably worked his way into enough threesomes and orgies that he probably doesn’t mind it either. It’s a possibility Cas hadn’t considered until now, but it’s not as interesting as it might once have been. 

He need to get over himself. Get over this shit. 

Deep breath, and then he sits up. 

“Do you have— anything?” 

“Oh, yes, I ran out here terrified for your life and I brought some tens with me.” 

“I was just asking.”

“What the fuck’s this about gang wars? Are we in the fucking _Outsiders_?” 

Cas explains in as few words as possible exactly what’s been going down the last few months. It sounds weird and unbelievable and angsty teen novel and it seems a lot more logical to him than it probably sounds but it doesn’t matter. He shrugs at Balth’s expression— he doesn’t know what this means either, although he’s pretty sure it’s something along the lines of _who the fuck are you._

It doesn’t hurt as much as it should. 

But it still hurts. 

They sit in silence for what might be minutes. Might be longer.

“Let’s go home,” Balthazar says. “Please?”

“I can’t.” 

“Do you think Dean’s still there?” 

“If he’s not, then I’d be locked out anyway.” Cas doesn’t move. “I can’t.” 

“My house, then. I still have your spare key.” 

“I—” 

“C’mon, 

Cas follows Balthazar down.

 

III.

He gets the all clear from Jo a few hours later, a few hours of searching the house for drugs and methodically flushing them (this one’s for Sammy, this one’s for Cas,) and wishing that solving the problem was as easy as that. 

He doesn’t leave, though. 

Because maybe it’s a bad idea, but he can’t help be convinced that if he could see Cas, if he could talk to him—

But the sun rises at six in the morning, and Cas isn’t back. 

Church-going families trickle past the window around eight, and Cas isn’t back. 

The mail is shoved through the slot at nine-thirty, and he needs to get back to Sam. 

It takes him three busses to get there. Opens the door to see Benny and Sam watching TV. Benny stands up rights away, makes a face like _you two should talk,_ pats Dean’s shoulder and makes a quick escape. 

“I thought you weren’t going to be back in time,” Sam says. “We have to check out by noon.” 

Dean picks at the bedspread. It’s a nice bed. The pattern more interesting than Cas’s. Probably to hide stains. Shame he didn’t sleep in it. 

“Well?” 

“It’s only eleven, man.” 

“Yeah. And you just got here.” 

Dean can blow this off. He can make a vague excuse for why Benny had to come in and babysit last night, he could wave everything off as he has been— except if he’s going to come clean, it should probably be now. Where they’re in a room by themselves so that Sam can get whatever yelling he wants to do out of his system. Now that Dean’s working relationship with Alastair is probably over, and in the light of day, he’s more relieved than anything else. 

Ashamed of his relief, but he doesn’t need to psychoanalyze himself over it. 

Sam stares at him for another second, and then sits down on his bed. Blows his nose in a way that’s probably meant to garner sympathy. Hair puffier than usual from frustration. 

“So,” Dean says. “I know you’re curious.” 

“Dean, I’m _damn_ curious.” Sam tries the phrase in his mouth for a moment before shaking it off. “Actually, though. What the fuck is going on. Where were you last night?”

“I was with Cas.” 

Sam’s face clears. “Well, you could have just told me—” 

“It’s not what you think.” It’s probably exactly what he thinks. “It’s not— I should probably tell you some stuff. What with you being old enough to get a twitter now.” And because it doesn’t matter anymore, right? And because Jo had hinted he should tell, and since he’s already told Cas and Jo it’s almost easier this time, fewer awkward pauses and vague hand gestures. Almost a relief, even though he can’t meet Sam’s eyes yet, to let the entire tangled story spill forth. 

Those nights when Dean told Sam that dad had left them extra cash.

When John would leave them in a hotel room for days at a time. 

When they were finally abandoned for good, back in the city of their birth, and he’d had to think fast. 

“I’m not sorry,” he says when he sits back. Crosses his arms. “I’m not sorry, but I… I guess you should know.” 

He dares a glance at Sam, but his brother is staring at his hands. 

“Last week,” he says. “You gave me money to take Amelia to _Iron Man 3._ ” 

“Yeah,” Dean says. “You like Amelia, you both like Iron Man.” 

“I paid for our date with— sex money?” 

Cas, Jo, Sam. They’ve all surprised him with what they find offensive. 

“If you want to look at it that way.” Money shoved at him from Alastair’s slimy fist after he’d just finished fucking Dean. Without care and without mercy. 

“Why the hell would you _do that?_ ” 

He can’t stay sitting like this. The room is only about four paces long, but he uses them well. Over and over and over. “Because that’s why, Sam! That’s exactly why I— I want you to be able to graduate middle school and go to the parties, I want you to be able to take girls on dates! It’s not a waste of money, it’s what you _should have._ That’s exactly why I did it, that’s exactly why I put up with that shit. Was so that you could have those things.” 

Sam stands, now, too. “I don’t WANT THEM! Not at that price—” 

“What, I’d already given it up, Sam— and that was my decision to make. My life.” 

He’d ask if Sam could seriously be mad at Dean for trying his best to take care of him in these goddamn shitty circumstances, but he already knows the answer. Of course he can. Of course. 

Because the idea of having a brother who let a grown man fuck him for cash is a lot less cool than a leather-wearing brother who fights crime. He probably can’t be both. 

Sam is still glaring at him, but it’s the type of glare where he isn’t quite sure if he has justification to be angry. “You shouldn’t have lied to me,” he snaps. 

_Yeah because you’ve never lied to me._ “Well. What’s done is done, I guess.” 

“You should get a real job.” 

That stings. 

“Yes, because I have so much time to get a real job in between keeping you clean and making sure we have somewhere to sleep and making sure you can go to school safely—” 

“The gang shit isn’t your _job_ —” 

“Keeping you safe is my job. And you know what? I’m allowed to have goddamn hobbies.” 

“I thought staring at the Impala was your hobby!” 

Oh yeah, because that’d help so much. Dean bites the inside of his mouth as he turns away. “I didn’t have to tell you this. And by the way, none of that leaves this room.” 

“Yeah,” Sam says. “Whatever. _Fuck_ , Dean— I wouldn’t. You’re my brother and I love you and I— you don’t have to sacrifice everything for me. It shouldn’t all be on you, it’s not fair—” 

“Who says life is fair, where is that written?” 

“Don’t quote _Princess Bride_ —” 

“Sam.” Dean turns. And there’s his brother, his baby brother. Who he’d been trying to protect. He’d been trying to keep the shittier aspects of life away from him, but you never can, not for long and all Dean wants is to cover his ears, say it’s going to be alright, but he can’t. And Sam is taking it reasonably well, and he doesn’t look disgusted, but the next thing Sam is going to want to do is bring up John and have a nice dad-sucks bitchfest and Dean can’t handle that. “Please. Don’t.”

“But you don’t think Alastair is going to find you?” 

_Can’t move, Alastair all over him, inside of him, praise and insults twisting together over Dean’s skin as he tries not to cry out, and it hurts so goddamn much._ “I don’t know. Maybe.” 

“Are you going to go with him again if he does?” 

Dean leans against the door. Breathe in, breathe out. He can do this. “I don’t know. Maybe.” It depends on everything. Depends on what’s happening. Depends on what he can do. Depends on how much is offered. 

“Are you going to talk to Cas?” 

And God, yes, he wants to. But Cas probably wants nothing to do with him now, because it’s stupid to— “I didn’t see him. I left the house before he came home. I doubt he’ll want to…” 

“Make him listen.” 

“Make him listen? What kind of advice is— It’s not like I can break into his house.” And when did this go from _forgive me brother for I have sinned_ to non-relationship relationship advice? 

Sam sits down again as well, but next to Dean this time. “You— were you, was it really just fucking to you?” 

Jo had asked, why does everyone have the same questions, but he’s thought about it more since then— Cas’s face when Dean rode him, the warmth, how good it was, how gentle despite their fights, the way Cas looked at him and the way he looked at Cas, the way Dean was always safe with him even when all evidence pointed to the contrary, that he— “No.” 

“Well, there’s hope for you yet.” 

“Bitch.” 

Sam doesn’t call him a jerk.

 

IV.

But that’s how he ends up pacing the sidewalk, twenty four hours later, a metro trip planner print-out balled up in his pocket. 

How he ends up circling the adjacent block four times before finally picking his balls up off the ground and approaching the school. 

Jo had told him that Cas’s friends tended to eat on the far corner of the lawn, and Dean can see them there now— he recognizes Weasel-face and the smirking guy who had checked Jo out, and yes, there’s the one he saw at that house that morning. But Cas isn’t with them. 

He goes around the block one more time. 

But lunch can only be so long, and they’d move, and—

Deep breath. 

Crushing all the panic down, he approaches the trio. Wonders how best to introduce himself— _Hi, I’m that guy who made you all worry about Cas, I’m that guy who—_ but, for better or for worse, he doesn’t need to.

The sandy-haired white kid (Balthazar, he’s pretty sure it’s Balthazar) is standing as Dean approaches. And he’s received a good number of dirty looks in his life— but this one ranks in the top ten, at least. Up there with Rufus, the first time he caught Dean ogling the Impala, and the nicely dressed lady who walked by him just as he’d finished a trick… 

“What the bloody hell are you doing here?” 

Why the fuck is he using a British accent? 

“I’m looking for Cas.” 

“Dude.” Uriel. Yes. Uriel frowns at him. “It’s scho—” 

Balthazar waves a hand at him, and Uriel shuts up, neat trick, and then the former proceeds to grab Dean’s shoulder. Not decking him requires repression of every instinct Dean has, and he’s dragged a few feet away from the others. 

“I know what’s going on,” he says. Accent coming through even though he’s barely moving his mouth. “They don’t. I do. And what the _fuck_ do you think you’re doing here?” 

This just got ten more types of awkward. Dean straightens up. Checks that there are no lunching students around, but Castiel’s friends seem to keep to themselves. “I need to talk to him. _Please._ I— if you know, then—” 

“I know that he…” the other boy stops for a second. “ _Goddammit._ He’s making up a test in room one-oh-four, but he usually finishes tests early so you can loiter outside. Through that door and to the right.” He hesitates a few seconds, and then peels his shirt off. 

Dean takes a step back. “The hell?”

“It’s not an ideal solution—” and now he’s sounding more American “—but just walk like you know what you’re doing, and everyone will just assume you’re in some other grade.” Dean stares at him for another second, but accepts the polo. Except he can’t take off his shirt, not with all these people around, and he hesitates for a few seconds before pulling the trick Tamara taught him— and if Balthazar raises his eyebrows at how Dean changes his shirt like a girl, well, fuck him and his wanna-be beard. 

“Lunch ends in twenty minutes,” he adds helpfully, holding Dean’s flannel by one corner. “I’ll wear my sweatshirt in the meantime, but I do hope you can hurry.” 

Dean turns away, but a tap on the shoulder makes him pause. 

“If you hurt him again they’ll never find your body.” 

Balthazar probably can’t go through on that threat, but it’s enough to make him nod and quicken his pace. And what is he doing, what the hell is he doing, why is he, how is he. As a kid, he’d stared at this building, his mom had told him how he’d go there someday. It had been so big, then, so big and white and impressive with its statue of St. Michael and pointed roof. But then Mary had died, and they’d left Seattle, and they’d drifted. 

And now he’s back. 

The doors are locked, but a passing student glances at him once before pushing it open. 

_Don’t look scared._

One-oh-four. He can do this. And so he walks. There aren’t many kids in this hallway, even fewer as he nears the end, but he tries to walk how they walk: trudging along with heavy backpacks, but with purpose as they go to their next destination. The walk of someone who’s life is stable, even though numerous things about it probably suck. The walk of someone who carries a pressure heavier than their backpacks— and maybe he does, too, albeit a different one. And maybe he should have brought his backpack.

There’s a trophy cabinet, and after checking that Cas isn’t out yet, Dean hesitates. They seem to do well at soccer and swimming, and Gabriel Milton’s name is on a plaque of great runners, and then there’s boxing— and the numbers go down with the shelves, and there’s the early nineties, but John Winchester’s name isn’t there. 

Mary Campbell is, though. Shoved off in the corner, but she’s there— a dusty crew plaque. Rowing doubles with Angela Naomi, and that name rings a faint bell, but he doesn’t remember where he heard it. 

_I’m sorry, Mom._

Despite the impressiveness of the outside, the halls here aren’t all that different from Sam’s school. Tiled floors, walls lined with lockers, classrooms with signs that say things like “Deadlines are closer than they appear” or presumably welcoming Japanese words. 

The door to one-oh-four is open, and there’s a banned book list on it— English, then— and he can just see Cas inside, bent over a paper. Scribbling. And he looks fine. Put together. Not the wreck Jo was worried about. And Dean isn’t sure if he should say something, if he should wait until Cas is done, he isn’t even sure what he has to say anymore, because it’s not like ‘sorry’ cuts it, and the hairs on the back of his neck are standing up and he turns and—

And there’s someone coming down the hall, riffling through some papers, but Dean knows the top of that head, and he looks for somewhere to hide and his palms are sweating and he doesn’t know if he could hold his knife even if he could get to it, and he doesn’t remember the last time he’s full out panicked but he’s frozen in place and so when Alastair looks up, it’s all over. 

Dean’s eyes drop to his crotch, more to avoid his face than anything else, and he sees the ID badge clipped to his pocket. 

_Alastair Ralston, principal._

_At least he wasn’t lying about his name,_ one tiny part of his brain whispers. 

They stop, four feet apart, and Dean wants to run, he wants _out_ , he wants to say _I’m sorry I stood you up the other night_ , he wants to say _I hate you_ , but then—

“What are you doing here?” And there’s the sandpaper. Dean shudders.

“I was, um.” He grabs for an explanation. “Going to ask about—” _enrollment for my brother, except Alastair can’t know he has a brother._ “I needed to— I—” he’s pretty sure that his fear, for all he’s tried to stomp on it, it is showing, and he shuffles back and presses his legs closer together and oh God, oh God, Alastair is going to find him and kill him for invading his school, he’s going to— and what sort of principal picks up teenage prostitutes— and— and—

There’s a shuffling from the door. 

And they both turn to see Castiel, looking suddenly small. Eyes flicking between Dean and Alastair, widening with a growing comprehension. 

_I told him Alastair’s name I told him I— shit—_ and Cas knows, Cas knows that Dean let his principal fuck him, and there’s nothing for it and he can’t wait to see the disgust, there’s a door about ten feet away and he’ll talk to Cas later because he bolts. Shoving it open, and there isn’t enough time because Alastair is watching him and he can’t get Balthazar in trouble and so he can’t give the shirt back and so he just runs.

He knows he’s only imagining Alastair’s hands on him, but that doesn’t make it any better.

 

V.

Dimly, Cas can hear the bell ringing, the chaos that always explodes afterwards, but the world has narrowed down onto Mr. Ralston’s face, and— _There’s only ever been… Alastair was the only one who ever, you know, the rest was just…_ and he’s going to be sick. He’s going to be sick. 

“Who was that?” he manages. 

Mr. Ralston barely glances on him. He’s too fixed on the door. “Some Hunter kid trying to visit his girlfriend, I expect,” and maybe in an alternate universe that’s true but Cas has to turn away. He’s itching and he needs— he needs to run after Dean, he needs to not be picturing Mr. Ralston’s hands all over the skin that Castiel had touched, and fuck everything, Cas is going to hold Dean down and fucking _worship_ him, clean Ralston away with his tongue, but right now, right now he can barely breathe and it’s a good thing that Crowley is in his next class because anything, anything is better than having a clear head. 

There are three classes after lunch. 

He has a study hall next. 

Crowley is in his study hall. 

It’s going to be okay. 

It has to be okay. 

He walks down the hall. Up the stairs. He can breathe. 

He can do this.

He can do this. He can sit down next to Crowley, cutting off a very confused Brady— but Brady leaves at Crowley’s nod.

Castiel can feel Jesus’s disapproving eyes on the back of his head, but it doesn’t matter. “What do you have?” he asks, teeth gritted. 

The other student studies him, looking positively fascinated. “Depends,” he says. Pauses to let the bell ring. Mr. Curtis shuffles in, a few second late (as per usual) with his nose in a paperback (as per usual) and then sits down and proceeds to ignore them (as per usual.) Nobody knows how he manages to keep himself employed, with his hands off teaching and grunts to “just call me Marv,” but it’s generally accepted Garrison lore that he just showed up one day and didn’t leave. 

He gets assigned far more study halls than the other teachers combined. 

But he doesn’t give a shit what Cas and Crowley whisper about in the corner, and the other students are too used to black market deals, so they carry on. 

“Depends on what?” 

“What do _you_ have?”

Cas doesn’t have any money on him— he doesn’t carry money— and doesn’t even have his blade although there’s no way he would part with that. He has nothing, and his desperation must show, because Crowley is smirking a bit now. 

“I’ll cut you a deal,” he says. Pulls out his phone, logs in, and taps a few icons. “Jefferson’s room is empty this period. Meet me there in five minutes, and I’ll give you some crossroads.” Crowley stands. “Marv, can I go to the bathroom?” 

Marv doesn’t look up from his book. “Sure thing, Fergus.” 

A few titters. But Crowley takes them in stride, moving past desks and Jesus and posters on grammar. 

Five minutes is a long time. 

Cas bends over a piece of paper. There’s nothing written on it, but he can pretend like he’s working, pretend like his hand isn’t sweating too much to hold a pen as he thinks, and he knows what Crowley is implying, knows what he wants, and he knows he’s going to go because fuck everything, he needs. Crowley’s always good for crossroads, amphetamines, the determination and power and joy and Cas needs that right now. 

He closes his eyes. 

It’s been forty-five seconds. 

Goddammit. 

And he’s sitting here, and the thoughts are coming back now, _Dean, Mr. Ralston, Alastair’s the only one who ever…_ and Dean and he’s going to be sick and it’s only been two minutes, staring at this piece of paper, lined notebook paper, and he straightens and Marv isn’t looking at him and Marv won’t notice if he disappears and so he stumbles towards the door, and he’s shaking, shaking so much, and everyone probably knows that he needs to go get high but everyone else can stick their thumbs up their asses. Jefferson’s room is two halls away, 

And he’s dreading running into Mr. Ralston, but he doesn’t because he hardly ever sees him anyway, except for today, except for _today_ and Dean had come to talk to him and he can’t even wonder about that because here he is. 

Crowley is perched on the desk. His smirk when Cas comes in twists his face. “I thought I said five minutes.” 

Cas shrugs. 

_I need it._

Footsteps seem loud, but it’s not as though the room is quiet. There’s the rhythm of a 1940s documentary narrator coming from the room on the left, the murmur of a class discussion on the right. And then Crowley leans up against the wall, right below the crucifix (because there’s a crucifix in every classroom,) and spreads his legs in an invitation. 

“On your knees,” he says, casual. 

He can’t do this. 

But he can’t go through the day on his own, either. 

God. He’s never going to live this down. But graduation is in seven weeks, all he has to do is endure. Still, he’s shaking when he kneels. 

_Dean did it._ Dean can do this. And Cas’s reasons are far less noble than needing to take care of a brother, but— maybe, he thinks, in some irrational corner of his mind, he’ll understand Dean better this way. Now that he’s unzipping Crowley’s uniform navy pants, wondering why the fuck he’s wearing silk boxers but pulling those down too. 

“Make it good.”

Cas doubts that the quality of Crowley’s orgasm will affect the amount of pills he gets, but there’s a chance, and he’ll take it. And then it occurs to him that Crowley is probably going to want to come in his mouth, and Cas doesn’t know if he has anything, because it would be just like him to— but then the other boy is rolling his hips forward, hand yanking on Cas’s hair. 

He touches the dick lightly with his tongue. Trying to get used to the taste. Salty, and that’s kind of gross, but if Dean can do this for him— Cas leans farther forward, curls his tongue around it. And, okay, okay. He can do this. 

Crowley is fully hard now, and for all his pomp and Britishness he’s still an eighteen year old boy, this can’t take too long. 

The hand in his hair tugs again, and Cas drags his tongue back to the tip before fully opening his mouth. Curls his lips over his teeth like he was taught to never, ever do those two months that he played clarinet. 

He can’t deep-throat. But he can roll his tongue around the head, wet his fingertips on his bottom lip before running them down the shaft. He can make Crowley jerk forward, and, _fuck_ , and he can feel proud of that, in a disgusting sort of way. Until Crowley yanks his head forwards, and he gags. Gasps around the dick in his mouth, desperate for air, but that just makes his jaw tighten and Crowley moan. 

His fist hits the wall. He thrusts forward again. 

And maybe he’s getting closer, and Cas tries humming, just a bit, and, yes, score, except when he does something Crowley likes Crowley’s reaction seems to be to choke him, and he isn’t sure if he should go all out and get it over with or try and keep the tears from leaking out of his eyes and—

“Oh, my god.” Okay, maybe he is close, it’s been, what, five minutes, if Crowley comes now then Cas will have that bit of blackmail over _him_ ( _Guy’s stamina is shit_ ) but then the door is opening, and. 

And. 

“Little busy,” Crowley snaps. 

There’s no answer, but the door doesn’t close. Cas is torn between turning to see who it is and revealing his face or hoping the back of his head isn’t very—

“Both of you. Ralston’s. Now.” 

Oh. 

_Eve._ Dammit. Marv would have let them off the hook. Lilith would have laughed and then ignored them. And all Cas can think as he stands, turns slowly, is that at least it isn’t Naomi. 

Crowley seems unaffected, merely cursing his blue balls as they’re led down the hallway. And when this gets out, and it will, Crowley is going to be the hero and Cas is going to be the faggy slut (because anyone can enjoy a blowjob, but only pathetic bottom gays and slutty girls can give one,) and he isn’t sure how anyone is going to take this (Gabe and Uriel? What are they going to do—) when they enter the office and nothing matters because he’s about to be face to face with Ralston for the second time that day and Cas doesn’t know if he can do it. Doesn’t know if he’s going to vomit.

The main office is more like a doctor’s, with two waiting chairs, the reception desk, and then two attached room for the principal and dean of students. Rooms inside a room. Across from that, an alcove with no door for the ASB. 

With his colorful high school history, Cas is reasonably familiar with the place. But he’s not used to being alone, not used to not having Gabe next to him, cracking jokes, or Balthazar flirting with whoever’s at the main desk. Because apparently Ralston will see them separately. (Probably because Crowley has blackmail and is going to walk free with a story about Cas jumping him and Cas isn’t going to get his tens.) 

_Breathe. Breathe._

But Ralston— _Alastair_ — is right behind that door, and— and— 

Sure enough, Crowley saunters out after about three minutes. Leaves the door to the main office open behind him as he heads back to study hall. And then Cas is going inside, and there’s his _face_ , and the hands he used to hold Dean down sitting innocently on the desk. 

“Have a seat, Mr. Novak.” 

His ears are ringing. 

He sits. 

There’s a desk dividing them, like the desk cutting him off from Dean and Jo was that only a few days ago? Pens, an x-acto knife, paperclips and forms, a phone blinking with messages, and if Cas looks up he’s going to—

“Look at me.” 

Cas looks up. _You fucked Dean, you disgusting piece of shit._ And Ralston opens his mouth, presumably to tell him that it’s not okay to suck Crowley’s dick during study hall, but what did he say to Dean, what did he say to Dean to get him to— _you fucked Dean, you—_

_Did he ask you to beg?_

_Sometimes._

_He was the only one who ever made me—_

_Times I’d pretend he was you, to get through it—_

“—gross indecency, going to have to—”

“You fucked Dean,” Cas whispers, before he can stop himself. Doesn’t want to stop himself, because the rage is building, and he’s going to be sick and he’s so, so angry. 

Ralston’s eyes widen, he rolls his chair back a fraction, then he stops and composes. “I don’t know who you—” 

“You sick, sick piece of shit.” All that rage, and it comes out so quiet. “You _fucked Dean._ You—” 

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

_Go to Hell, go to Hell, go to Hell._ “You two— in the hallways—” Alastair is backing up some now, like he’s afraid, and he should be because Cas reacts the way he always reacts, he lunges, fist meeting eye, fingernails clawing down the side of his face and “I’m going to _KILL YOU,_ you sick _FUCK._ ” 

A bad move, certainly, because now the door is flying open but it doesn’t matter because somewhere in all of this Cas and _Alastair_ are both standing and Cas’s arms are flying, knee into his balls— _dick he used, dick he shoved inside Dean, cut it off—_ and there’s a shout of “Call security,” security, not the police, because they don’t want the police to hear what Cas is saying, do they, and Alastair can’t hit him but he tries to block, but no, no, no— but there’s the x-acto knife, and Cas dives for it, spinning, and barely nicks Alastair’s cheek but at least there’s blood and then someone screams and there are strong arms around his middle and he could throw them off except he’s too gone, he can’t see anything but Alastair, Alastair—

“Touch him again and I’ll cut your hands off, I’ll cut off your dick and shove it up your own ass—” and there’s the groin of Bob-the-security-guard and Cas pulls away from him and his voice is louder than it should be, but he’s out in the main office now and everyone can see and he doesn’t care because Alastair is through the doorway that he’s trying to close, and Cas slams into it just in time to hear the lock click into place, and so he screams, half expecting the windows to crack. “YOU EVEN _LOOK_ AT HIM AGAIN, I WILL CLAW YOUR EYES OUT—” Bob is backing away from him and so he kicks the door even harder, there’s no coordinated attack, but Alastair is in there and Cas needs to hurt him, to tear out his wandering eyes and disgusting hands— “YOU DON’T. TOUCH. HIM. YOU SICK PERVERTED FUCK—” he doesn’t know what he’s— “I’LL KILL YOU! _DO YOU HEAR ME?_ ” 

Another kick, and the door rattles, some shards of wood falling away, and if Cas had his gun he could shoot the lock off and then he could shoot Alastair Ralston— “TOUCH HIM AGAIN AND I’LL KILL YOU, I’LL SHOVE A KNIFE SO FAR UP YOUR ASS, DON’T _LOOK_ AT HIM,” and he can’t breathe, he can’t see, his ears are ringing, he’s Gordon, he’s everyone, he’s _furious_ and he can’t stop, they don’t know what to do. 

Another “should we call the police?” and Ralston shouts “no, he’ll get over it,” through the door, and Cas is so, so tired and he kicks it one more time and then Bob is pinning his arms to his sides, holding him, a few feet away now, closer to the ASB room than the door, and then they’re talking, saying Ralston should leave the office, so he opens the door, heads towards the exit, and Cas flails, but he can’t move, and “I’M GOING TO KILL YOU, YOU SICK FUCKER, TOUCH HIM AND I’LL KILL YOU, I SWEAR—” and then Ralston’s out in the hall and the door is locked and then there’s a beep and he turns and his tunnel vision is widening, he sees Ion holding up a cellphone, recording light flashing, and forget ASB everyone knows he reports directly to Raphael and “TURN THAT OFF,” he yells, but the knife was dropped long ago and he doesn’t want Bob near him, can’t be near anyone, so he stops fighting, stops struggling because the one he wants to kill is gone. 

And he sinks to the floor, head in his hands, and the irony doesn’t escape him but he can’t breathe and he’s shaking and he just _attacked the principal_ and the principal had paid Dean to sleep with him, paid Dean to— and he’s not crying, but his eyes burn, and the quiet whispers of the people around are only just becoming audible— 

“His parents are out of town—”

“Who’s his emergency contact?” 

“Can’t ask an emergency contact, should call the cops—”

“Alastair said not to, and anyway, he’s over eighteen, don’t need that mess—” 

“Try his sister—” 

“ _Anna Novak?_ Surely you remember—” 

Anna. Anna, who’s off at college, far away and she’s not here. 

“I’m trying the home number—” 

And there’s a beeping, and they’re talking, and Cas doesn’t know who they’re talking to because his ears fuzz out again, and there’s blood on him, Mr. Ralston’s blood, and two days ago he slept with Dean and today he sucked Crowley’s cock and attacked Mr. Ralston and what is he, what is he, and he knows that if he’d had his knife on him he would have stabbed him, maybe not fatally, but he could have, he’s stabbed people before, he wonders if he would have killed him, he wonders if he would have felt bad— 

The bell rings again, and an hour ago he was writing an essay on Kafka, but then everything changed, again…

He digs his fingernails into his forehead. 

How much time has passed, ten minutes, twenty minutes, everyone carefully steps around him like he’s going to explode ( _he’s going to explode_ ) and hey at least this is going to overshadow the cocksucking incident, how about that, but he’s still got nothing, his house looks like a rehab counselor went through it and Crowley’s probably switching from study hall to what class is next, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t care, he just wants—

“Cas,” someone says, and that doesn’t make sense because she shouldn’t be here. But there’s a hand on his shoulder, a hand rubbing his back because that is always soothing, and Anna knows how to do this, too. “Cassie. Hey. Hey.” The hand on his shoulder is pulling him up, the last hand on his shoulder had been pushing him down, but this is Anna, and this doesn’t make sense because her semester doesn’t end for a month and what is she doing— 

“How—”

“Jo called me Saturday night,” she says. 

“Why—”

“I had to find someone who would let me use their car so I could come home. Of course I came home.” 

“Anna—” he’s going to have to explain it all again, isn’t he, his face crumples and Anna pulls him into her shoulder, like when they were kids and Mom lost it, only now it’s Cas who’s losing it, and he’s shaking and god, why can’t he just cry all this out, he’s so pathetic. 

“I’m taking you home,” she says. “Okay? Let’s go home.” 

And he’s being pulled to his feet and his polo has blood on it and they’re stumbling towards the door and everyone is staring at him and so he looks down, focuses on his feet, and maybe Alastair is going to go after Dean now, Dean is going to hate him more than he already does, everything is going to Hell. But then Anna grabs his arm again, and they’re outside and the sun is still shining and he doesn’t understand how, and he’s led towards a rusty Kia and it’s not their Subaru it’s not his getaway car but he’s in the passenger seat and Anna pats his knee a few times and pulls out into traffic.

 

VI.

He makes three random turns, almost gets framed for shoplifting, and is asked if he wants to purchase about thirty issues of _Real Change_ newspaper by the time he gets back to the Roadhouse. Because Alastair was _there_ and Dean’s going to have to go out of his way to hide now. Because he knows, and it's not safe to know things. He and Sam have about forty bucks to their name, and he’ll just have to skip out on dinners for a bit. He can do this. He can do this. No more Aurora, at least for a bit. 

But he’s got the eyes crawling all over his skin. 

The showers aren’t as empty as he would have liked, but he’ll be fine, as long as he can ignore Garth singing to himself a few stalls down. 

He’ll ask Bobby about washing Balthazar’s shirt, too. Bobby will look at him funny, but probably won’t ask too many questions. 

Okay. 

It’s okay. 

He’s hidden his money belt in his pile of dirty clothes, and even though nobody should come bursting into his stall, he keeps an eye on it through the crack in the shower curtain. The pain in his feet is just becoming a problem, and, yeah, he did jog from Garrison to the Roadhouse. That’s going to hurt.

 _Fuck._

But Dean is calm by the time he gets out, skin raw and new and eternally dirty. Puts on a clean t-shirt and dirty jeans. Adjusts his cash, ignores Garth and his sock puppet, and reenters the main room. And it’s almost two, so he leaves a note for Jo to ask Balthazar when he can return the shirt, gets on a bus to go pick up Sam, tries not to think. Retrieves his brother, busses back to the Roadhouse, and is accosted at the door.

“Dean!” Lisa says. “Perfect. Hi.” 

Dean blinks. “Hi?” 

“Tamara’s day to pick the movie is this Friday, and she thinks _The Breakfast Club_ is better than _Raiders_ —” 

“It’s my movie, I choose what I want,” Tamara says, looking miffed. “And if you don’t stop judging me I’ll pick _The Shining_ just to piss you off.” 

“Do it,” Dean says. “ _Shining_ , no question.” 

“I can’t believe I’m related to you,” Sam says. 

“You’re not helping.”

“Sorry, Lise. Either of you planning on doing laundry today?” 

“No,” Tamara says. “But I think Krissy is trying to round up a load. Why? Is this about the shirt you asked Jo about?” 

In retrospect, leaving a note on the desk might have been a bad plan. “Snoop.” 

But then Sam throws the shirt to Lisa, because he’s gotten it out of Dean’s pack and Sam is a traitorous freak, and Lisa is shaking it out. “Isn’t Garrison the school your friend goes to?” 

Dean grabs it back. “Shut _up_. I had to go incognito.” 

Sam turns to him. “You went to—” 

“What were you—” 

“Dean.” 

They all turn. Jo is standing on the stairs, holding a half-defensive danger pose. And that never means anything good. 

“I thought you weren’t speaking to me?” Dean ventures. 

“No, I’m mad at you, there’s a difference. But there’s a— thing.” 

“What?” 

“We need you in the office.” 

Tamara has flopped back onto the sofa again. “Sometimes I wonder if you’re an undercover agent.”

“Yeah. I’m going to rat you out every time you hate on my man Jack,” Dean says, but Jo’s face is set and it’s with a strange sort of terror that he says goodbye to Lisa and Tamara and tells them to keep Sammy (”It’s Sam!”) out of trouble. Walks towards the steps. 

It feels a bit like crossing the Bridge of Sighs. The last view of the Roadhouse, and its crappy pool tables, lumpy sofas, paperbacks and friends and Sammy that he’s going to get. 

It turns out that Ellen and Bobby are in the office, going through some papers, so they stop on the landing. And— “Wait when did Bobby get out of the wheelchair?” 

Jo stares at him. “Days ago. Look. I texted Balthazar about the shirt, like you asked me to— I’ll take it to him, by the way, because I have to return Cas’s iPod— and…” she’s got her phone out now, is pulling up facebook. “He linked me to this.” 

Castiel would kick all their asses if he knew how much they all were talking about him, monitoring him, trading intel. He’s about to say something to this effect when the phone is shoved in his face. A public video, uploaded by some sucker named Ion, titled _Castiel Novak goes apeshit at Ralston._

Oh. 

Oh no. 

Oh no no no—

“Play it,” Jo says, and there’s a challenge on her face. 

Dean does. 

The sound is crappy, Cas yelling too loud for a clear signal— a lot of it is just fuzz and the odd word ( _look at him— eyes out— your own ass— kill—_ ) but the video is clear. Cas fighting and there’s the principal and that’s blood on his face and Cas, Cas, Cas, _no._

Cas had been so good at calming down Gordon, got Dean to bring him water, left him music, and there’s nobody here for Cas, and Dean has to— Dean has to— the video ends, and he nearly drops the phone and oh god, oh god. Alastair might go after Cas now, and he’ll know Dean told, and he’s never heard Cas yell, not _ever_ , he’s always that controlled fury like that time he slammed Dean against a wall and said that under no circumstances was he to hunt down Dick Roman alone, but here he’s gone. He should have been able to take out the big guy, the security guy, easy, and Cas— Cas— 

He sits down. 

Tries to breathe. 

“The hell is going on, Dean?”

“How would—”

Jo sits next to him. “You come back in a Garrison shirt, this video appears on facebook? I know Cas. Cas doesn’t lose his shit like that— he—” she’s pressing her thumbs into her eyelids now, and it takes a minute to realize she’s shaking as well. “I should never have tried to be friends with him, Dean, I’m not supposed to have friends, it never—”

For the first time, Dean realizes that Jo is just as lonely as the rest of them. At least Dean and Benny and Victor and Gordon and Lisa and Tamara and all of them can bond over shared experiences, bitch about The System, swap stories and junk. But Jo, for everything she does, will never _be_ one of them (nobody would want to be one of them,) but she doesn’t really fit with other kids either—

Sometimes he forgets that Jo has a separate life. 

But there isn’t time to worry about everyone now, and “it’s not your fault,” (it’s mine,) and he’s standing— “I gotta fine him, I gotta—” he stands, stumbles back down the stairs (everything’s exactly as he left it, the world isn’t over after all). Sam stands, turns to him— but “I have to go. Stay _here_ , Sammy.” 

He’s been lucky lately. He’s been running all over creation getting into all kinds of trouble. But it’s four-thirty, and overcast, but light, and that’s why he’s unprepared. 

Down one street, down the next street, almost to the bus stop but there’s a police car, and _got to find Cas, got to get to Cas’s_ and Dean detours by force of habit and he’s halfway down a side street when someone grabs him.

He turns, but he’s surrounded, when did that happen, and he only has time to notice the black jeans ( _Leviathan_ ) before a rag is held up to his face and he—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Bohemian Rhapsody](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R3_0Pky8vVg)
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> Btw I'm on tumblr now at pepper-mint-wind so you should say hi.


	10. Highway to Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for: homophobically charged violence, some discussion of rape.

**MONDAY**  
The walls in Castiel’s house are relatively thick— Cas had always been able to sleep whenever Anna brought a boy home, Anna had been able to shut out Cas’s music because “nobody listens to that shit, how are you related to me.” 

So the thuds coming from the bathroom are very impressive. 

He pauses the _Funny or Die_ playlist to go knock on her door. “You alright?” 

The water turns off. “Yeah,” Anna yells. “But that goddamn removable showerhead doesn’t want to stay in its doohickey.” 

“Are you putting it in wrong?” 

“I know how to take a goddamn shower!” 

The water starts again. 

Cas can’t help smiling as he returns to YouTube— he doesn’t know if she’s doing it on purpose, to make him laugh, (although he’s been brained by the thing more than once) but it’s still funny. Should it be funny? 

Everything is very surreal. He’s still waiting for his expulsion phone call, or for the police to show up at the door— but when someone knocks, and he checks the peephole, it’s only Uriel. 

“Hey, man.” Cas waves him inside. 

He’s known the other boy since before he could spell either of their names, so he knows when something’s up. And sure enough— 

“What are you watching?” 

“Funny or Die.” Cas sits back down. “Wanna see the—”

Uriel elbows him out of the way, leans forward, and starts typing into the YouTube search bar. 

Cas shoves him back. “The hell are you doing?” 

“Ion posted a video.” He points, but he doesn’t need to: Cas can read the screen perfectly well. The title is funnier than it should be— who even says apeshit— but it’s already hit the three-hundred-one view mark of a new video.

He doesn’t click play.

He’d been there. 

“The audio sucks, but I got bits and pieces.” Uriel still isn’t sitting, and so Cas stands as well. He wonders if this is going to turn to a fight, if Uriel is ticked— wonders how much he knows. Because if he needs a fistfight to get it out of his system, Cas gets it. 

“Yeah, I—” he almost says he was high, but he wasn’t high. “I kinda… lost it.”

Uriel isn’t smiling or making bad jokes yet and Castiel doesn’t like this. Doesn’t like this at all. 

“I could tell.” 

“Yeah.” 

Awkward silence. 

“The person you were yelling about was Dean, wasn’t it. Balthazar said you saw him on Aurora that night, when you _ditched_ him, remember that? And now you… and now you do this and don’t even say anything?” 

“Sorry I didn’t call any of you,” Cas says. “I’ve been— just trying to chill out. Figure I’ll get arrested any minute.” 

“Everyone saw the cut on his face. That’s pretty intense, even for you.” And then there’s the shadow of a smile. “But— people are— saying things.” 

_Crowley?_ “What things?” 

“Well, not saying so much as, Dean showed up yesterday, during lunch, and then you went apeshit—” oh god, is that going to catch on? “And— it seems like— are you—” Uriel shifts weight, foot to foot. Tugs at his collar for a second. “Are you—” 

There are many possible endings to this question. “Am I what?” 

“—gay?” 

Oh. _Wait, so I scream at and attack the principal, and what people are talking about is ‘Castiel is gay?’_

Well. At least high school students have priorities. “No,” Cas says, and the look of relief on Uriel’s face makes his stomach coil. Why is he relieved, why would he— “I mean, I don’t know, really, maybe I’m bi or— I don’t know all the words.” He likes some people. He loves Dean. 

It’s getting easier to think every time he does. 

“No,” Uriel says. “No, no—” 

Cas is so tired. “What’s your problem? You voted for gay marriage, you laugh when Gabe reads _The Stranger_ —” 

“Other people.” Uriel’s fists are opening and closing, and Cas takes another step back, because this isn’t something they can solve with a fight. He doesn’t want to fight. His back hits the wall. “ _Other people._ You’re one of my best friends, why can’t you just be straight, huh? And over a homeless—hooker? ”

“You shut your mouth—”

“We _all know_ what it means when a pretty boy stands on a corner on Aurora, although apparently Mr. Ralston is freaky too—”

“You _shut up about Dean—”_ (Because that one is something Cas can fight him on, this one…)

“And people are going to find out, my parents are never going to let me stay over here again, and—”

“We’re going to college in four months, they can’t—” 

“And— and you like _cock_ , and you didn’t tell me— how long have you known?” 

Cas doesn’t answer. 

“ _How long?_ ”

What is even happening right now, why today? Six hours ago, he… “I don’t know,” he says. “A few years, probably. Jesus. It’s not like I was lying every time I went out with a girl, or whatever, I just—” 

“I’ve slept in the same tent as you!” Uriel’s eyes are wild now, as he moves closer. “What if—” 

“What if my hormones took over and I jumped you? This isn’t an Ang Lee movie, you’re my friend, I’m not attracted to you, sorry—” 

It’s a surprise when Uriel’s knee lands in his stomach. A surprise enough that he doubles over, and an elbow to the back has him down on his knees. _Third time today,_ he thinks inanely. The next blow hits his face. 

“Why would you do that?” and it sounds like Uriel is crying, maybe, but Cas can’t tell for sure if the drops on his face are tears or blood. It hasn’t even occurred to him to fight back yet, and when it does, he sort of shrugs the urge off. He’s too tired, and he has nothing to fight against, now that he’s stopped talking about Dean. It isn’t an argument about pizza toppings, it’s an argument about facts, about _Cas_ , and kicking Uriel’s ass won’t make what people are saying less true. Won’t make Cas’s sexuality less true. 

“Tell me it’s bullshit,” Uriel says. “Tell me it’s bullshit.” Another hand to his face. His nose is probably bleeding. 

He just looks up. 

The light bulb is very bright. 

And then there’s the unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked. 

“Get out of my house,” Anna says, and Cas hadn’t heard the shower stop. 

They both turn. 

She’s naked, soaking wet, pointing the colt at Uriel. Uriel, whose mouth falls open, closed, open again. 

_"Out.”_

She’s standing between him in the door, and Uriel looks around, and then shoves one of the windows open. Rolls out ass first— it had been their escape, when they’d played cops and robbers or assassin, they all jumped out that window so many times, but that childhood is over now. 

Cas touches his nose.

Yep, that’s blood. 

“Dad doesn’t have any ammo for the Colt,” he says. 

“Well I wasn’t planning on actually _shooting_ him. Never liked him, but—” with Castiel’s recent actions, any violence should be kept to a minimum, yeah. 

“Oh,” Cas says. 

“Are you okay?” 

Blood is dripping onto his shirt. To join Ralston’s. 

Everything feels very surreal. 

“Yeah,” he says. 

“Okay.” She nods. “Um…” 

“Could you please put some clothes on?” Cas asks. 

She nods a few more times. “Okay.” 

 

 **TUESDAY**  
Anna leaves in the morning, with many apologies, because her friend needs his car back and she has finals coming up and Cas totally understands, drive safe, and she makes him promise to be careful and she’ll call him and he says okay. 

But it’s Tuesday, and everyone else is in school. And he hasn’t told any of the others about Uriel’s visit, and his only texts from Gabe and Balth have been along the lines of “are you crazy/are you okay/do you need anything.” 

He doesn’t need anything. 

But he’s bored. 

He’s bored, and even though his nose isn’t broken, but the bruises around his face are unsightly. People are going to make people look at him funny, ask questions. But sitting around has never been his style, he’s on the ‘die’ end of _Funny or Die_ , and after half an hour of drifting and reading the newspaper (thankfully absent of stories about violent Catholic school students,) he’s putting his shoes on and driving to the Roadhouse. 

Jo is in school, and there’s only one person crashed on the sofa, but there is always something to be done. Scrubbing the floors with a toothbrush, sorting the magazines by issue and date. 

“You’re not on the schedule today,” Bobby says when he enters. 

Cas shrugs. “Just… didn’t have anything to do.” 

A frown. “I can’t give you service hours.” 

“Don’eed ‘em.” 

Bobby sighs. “Why aren’t you in school?” 

“Suspended.” 

“You _what?”_ and there’s Ellen, who has appeared from apparently nowhere. “Jesus, Cas. What happened to your face?” 

Never any bruises where people could see. Uriel broke the first rule…

“That part of where you got that shiner?” 

“No… no, that was later.” Cas touches the bruise again. It hurts just a bit when he presses on it— he isn’t sure why he still does. “This is from my friend Uriel.” Not friend anymore, maybe, it’s weird to be reminded of that. Uriel’s been a constant, all his life, they’re brothers, they’d made a pact when Lucifer got into a rage and Gabe said that Lucifer and Michael weren’t his brothers, Uriel, Cas and Balthazar were, and so they’d promised… 

Bobby and Ellen are both staring at him, similar expressions of concern that’s so parental Castiel wants to laugh. These two aren’t even married, but here they are. 

“You… want to elaborate?” Bobby waves a hand at his face. 

“I got suspended for— yelling at the principal.” They’ll know the full story if the school calls to warn them, since the Roadhouse number is on his service learning forms. And there’s nothing more to say there, without getting Dean in trouble— and maybe he should try and get Alastair in trouble, except he doesn’t know what the prostitution laws are these days, and Dean was over eighteen, and anyway Dean would have to testify and shit and he doesn’t need that in his life. “Then my friend Uriel came over, and I don’t think we’re friends anymore.” 

Bobby pats his shoulder. “Well, we always need someone to sort the magazines.” 

“Cas—” Ellen shakes her head before she can finish the sentence. “We’re here if you need something, okay?” 

They wouldn’t be here if they knew about the x-acto knife, but it’s nice to hear all the same. He nods, and heads towards the shelves. 

The kid on the couch sits up as he approaches. “Who are you?” 

“Cas.” 

“I’m Richie,” he says, and promptly falls back asleep. 

“Nice to meet you, Richie,” Cas mutters, before pulling magazines out in handfuls. _Life, Time, People, Us Weekly, Rolling Stone_ going back to the nineteen eighties. He pauses on a _Time_ from oh-five, frowning at the cover— _The battle over Gay Teens._

He considers laughing, but doesn’t. 

Just tosses it into the pile with the rest of its kind. 

“Well, howdy.” And that’s a drawl he can now identify without looking. 

“Hey, Benny.” 

Benny sits down on the sofa, taking no apparent notice of Richie, who grunts a little before storming off to find another place to sleep. 

“What are you doing here?” 

Bobby’s typing away at the desk, Ellen seems to have disappeared upstairs again. They probably have another hour before whoever is doing lunch today comes in, so Cas talks. “I attacked the principal,” he says. “I’m insanely suspended.” 

“Well. Look who’s finally…” Benny waves a hand, and Cas is left not knowing what he finally is. “What’d he do?” 

_Dean,_ and the bile rises in his throat again, but he shrugs. 

“’Cause Dean was plannin’ on visitin’ your school yesterday, that—” Does _everyone_ know? Does fucking everyone know? Cas turns around, and Benny must see something on his face, because he raises his hands. “Sorry, brother. Didn’t mean to get pers’nal.” 

“The principal deserved it.” 

“Good enough for me.” Benny hesitates a second, then sits down next to him. “So, name, and then date, right?” 

Cas nods, and Benny joins the sorting. 

“Jo says to tell you she’s got your iPod and your friend’s shirt,” he says. 

“How…” 

“Well she had to give you your iPod anyway, so Dean gave her the shirt.” 

Because Dean— Cas hopes his voice comes out casual, when he asks, “you seen him?” 

“Not since Sunday.” _Sunday._ The— Cas rubs his bruise again. “Thought you talked to him yest’rday?” 

“I saw him, but he got caught. Had to run.” Why are his hands shaking? Why is everything always shaking now? 

Benny shrugs, unconcerned. Holds up an issue with a particularly unflattering picture of Charlie Sheen. “I don’t think I’d want to be on the loose with that guy. He looks like a creep.” 

Cas just nods. “Is there anyone around to— you know—” 

“Fight?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Everything’s real quiet. Haven’t heard anything from the Levis in days.” 

It’s wrong that he’s so disappointed. 

They finish sorting in silence.

 

 **WEDNESDAY**  
He never thought he’d be this bored again. 

There have been long summers, but he’s always had the others to knock around with. And then Jo and Dean came along, and life was exciting. 

And now he’s bored. 

He isn’t sure if his parents are aware of his suspension yet, and it seems stupid that schools punish kids who get in trouble by letting them out to get in _more_ trouble. And he should probably have checked before now to see if this will affect any of his college acceptances. And thinking about all that stuff makes him want to scream. 

A few months ago this seemed incredibly important. When all anyone could talk about was where they were applying. 

Cas sighs. 

Gabriel would probably ditch school to get up to shenanigans with him, but Cas doesn’t have any shenanigan ideas. And he hasn’t seen Gabe. Because Gabe always runs away from conflict, and… Cas’s current plan is to avoid them until his face heals, because that way if Uriel wants to pretend this never happened, he can. 

It’s a lonely thought. 

His phone vibrates, and the way he dives for it is probably a sign of just how desperate he is. 

_Jo Harvelle_  
 _\- Have u cn dean since mon am?_

Benny hadn’t been worried yesterday, but if he still hasn’t turned up— and Cas pretends that he hasn’t been wondering, with every sound outside, if Dean is there, if he’s going to try and talk to him, because it’s not like Dean doesn’t know where he lives, because he knows that if he’s not at the Roadhouse Cas has no way to find him— because Cas is not obsessive. Cas isn’t wondering what would have happened if he had finished his test earlier, and they’d had a moment. 

They would have agreed to sweep the entire thing under the rug and go back to busting gangs. Or maybe they would have agreed that they should avoid each other forever. The second one is painful to think about, but if it’s what Dean wanted— well, Cas is pretty good at being a martyr. Or whatever. 

_Jo Harvelle_  
 _\- Im skipping, meet me at RH?_

Cas half runs for the car. 

He’s stopped bothering to pretend that his time there is community service. Stopped filling out those forms, because he finished the required number of hours months ago and he didn’t want to have to deal with Naomi’s raised eyebrows. 

So when he shows up, and Bobby makes a face like _what’s it take to get rid of this kid,_ Cas just shrugs and says he doesn’t need to sign in. 

Jo and Victor are at the corner table, playing Jenga and having what looks like a very involved conversation. 

“He’s probably just taking a day off after all the drama,” Victor says, nodding a hello to Cas. “How do you plan on findin’ him, anyway? There’s gotta be like a hundred thousand people in the city.”

“Six hundred and twenty thousand,” Cas says, and then realizes that that doesn’t help at all. “When’d you last see him?” 

Jo starts wiggling a block out. “Monday, early afternoon. There’s a video—” 

“I’ve seen it.” 

“Balthazar sent it to me, wanting to know if I knew anything about it, so I asked Dean.” The block is removed successfully, and balanced on top. “Then he left— I think he was gonna try and find you.” 

All his friends are traitors. Cas pokes a block out of the middle, because he’s all about safety. 

“Well, he didn’t find me.” Although that could mean any number of things. “You seen Sam?” 

“Yeah, Benny got him from school yesterday,” Jo says, watching with raised eyebrows as Victor leaves the upper part of their tower balancing on one block. “He says that he’s probably okay— actually what he said was ‘Dean’s always missing, and he’s always fine.’ Said it’d be just like him to chicken out and then hide.” 

“Dean wouldn’t leave—” Victor stops and reconsiders. “Dean wouldn’t leave for this long without even telling Sam he was going to be gone. _Go,_ Jo.”

“I’m _thinking._ ” 

“Sam could be lying for him,” Cas says. Because Cas hangs around the Roadhouse, maybe too much for it to be Dean’s safe space. And the idea that he’s pushed him out of it— maybe he should stop coming around, and then he’d hardly ever see Jo but they could still go running, and seeing her wouldn’t hurt because even though he’d think of Dean, this wouldn’t be her fault. “Dean knows we’d worry.” Because Dean is fine, Dean is always fine, Dean’s proven that he’s capable all on his own, “and so maybe Sam’s… covering?” 

Jo finally selects a block, and pokes it gently. Glaring at anyone who moved, as though the briefest movement will knock it down. 

Although that’s probably true. There’s only one block left on the bottom row as well. 

“People come and go,” Jo says. Although Cas isn’t sure how she’s speaking clearly, because she’s focusing so hard that her tongue is sticking out a bit. “Maybe—” 

Maybe— 

“Nah.” Victor shakes his head a few times. “I know Dean. He wouldn’t just ditch everything.” 

“So he’s coming back, then,” Cas says. “I mean… Sam still has school.” 

He doesn’t know who last touched it, but the tower collapses. 

Jo starts building it up again, and Cas can’t breathe. 

He bows out of a turn to go to the bathroom, poop and flush the toilet and wash his hands and try and rationalize that tiny, nagging voice that says _something’s wrong, Dean isn’t okay,_ into projection. _Cas_ is the one that’s not okay. It’s not as though Dean is sending him telepathic messages. 

Wash hands. Soap. Twenty seconds. Dry hands. 

When he gets back to the Jenga table, he sees that his spot has been stolen by a ginger wearing garishly bright colors. 

Like a mature adult, he steals a chair from another table, instead of demanding it back.

“Oh, there he is,” Jo says. “Cas, Charlie. Charlie, Cas.” 

“Your fake girlfriend?” 

“I’m your _what?_ ”

Jo waves a hand. “I was trying to convince Cas’s parents that we weren’t dating.” 

Charlie goes very still. “ _Are_ you dating?” 

“No,” Cas says, frowning at her expression. 

She smiles. “Cool.”

Jo smacks her on the arm, and gets a glare for her disruption of the table. “So where’ve you been?” 

“Squatting, mostly.” Charlie pulls a laptop out from under the table, and Cas tries really, really hard not to wonder where she got it. “Dean stopped by a couple months ago, asked me to keep an eye on some stuff online. Crowley leaving you alone, Cas?” 

_On his knees with Crowley jerking his head forward—_ It takes a second to remember _when_ Dean visited her. The Angel thing. Because for some reason, Crowley knows that…

“Crowley,” he mutters. 

“What?” 

He nods to Charlie’s computer. “You got internet?” 

She looks positively offended. “Of course.” 

“Can I—” 

She curls over it, muscles tensing. “Can’t you just tell me what you want me to look up?” 

“Yeah, go to YouTube?” The Jenga tower falls again, but this time nobody bothers to set it back up. 

“What am I searching?

He doesn’t remember the actual title. “Castiel Novak apeshit, it should show up. And— can you mute?” 

She hits another key, and turns the screen slightly towards him. Cas has her zoom in on the side, towards the door, because the walls around that area are all windows— 

“Pause.” 

He squints at the face. Any student could have stopped in the hall to watch the shit go down, but the way he’s standing— and Cas doesn’t think he can hear— 

“Wait,” Charlie says. “Mr. Ralston— _that’s_ Alast—” she stops, but seems to pick up on what Cas is implying. And turns the volume back on. There’s the buzz of a loud noise, and then Cas’s voice, and he flinches. She mutes it again. “Did you use Dean’s name?”

“I don’t remember.” He doesn’t remember half of it, just the feel of flesh and the door biting his foot— “I know I did, at the beginning, when we were still in the office, but I don’t know how loud it was… I thought Crowley left.” 

“He could have come back in to grab something,” Jo says. “Or pretend he’s not listening at the— wait, why were you and Crowley in the office together?” 

“Because someone flushed all of my stuff,” he snaps, and Jo looks vaguely guilty. 

“Wait so you think this Crowley guy ratted?” Victor asks. “I’m losing track of the characters. Who’s Alastair?”

But Cas’s mind is racing. “Doesn’t matter,” he says. “Crowley would be able to place Dean's name, because I met him on Plunge and I don’t remember exactly but we had a big share-fest and I probably mentioned him. And that’s the type of shit Crowley remembers— he knew that I had Dick Roman’s knife and about the fighting ages ago, that’s why Dean went to Charlie, to get her to change my address so he couldn’t tell people where I lived— so if Crowley wanted something from any gang in the area all he’d have to do was trade them for this information— who's messing with what gang—” 

“And Dean’s always here,” Jo says. “It wouldn’t be hard to say ‘Dean from the Roadhouse,’ all they’d have to do would be send someone in to identify him. Then they’d just have to wait to get him somewhere out of the way—” 

But this doesn’t make sense, because “Why wouldn’t they go after me? Why would Crowley tell Roman about Dean, and not me?” 

“Dude.” Victor frowns at him. “You’re a private school student, son of a famous author. If you were murdered, or taken, it’d be a huge thing. Dean—”

Dean can just disappear. Because at the end of the day, once you dig past the sarcasm and the musical taste and the jokes and the smiles and the determination and the care and the everything that makes Dean _Dean,_ he’s just another homeless teenager, and those disappear all the time.

And if they learned Castiel’s location from Dean, then it couldn’t trace back to Crowley, the way it would if Crowley told them straight out. If the police got involved, Crowley's name wouldn't come up. 

Cas wants to vomit. But he can’t, he can’t do that, because that’s not how this goes. He’s going to figure this out. 

“ _If_ he’s not just taking a tour of northern Portland,” Victor says. 

Right. 

“It should be easy enough to figure out if someone has him,” Charlie says, turning the computer away from Cas and doing some magical skullduggery. “There’d be chatter on the web, the safest place they could take him is Roman’s, and it’s not like Dick Roman’s house doesn’t take up an entire zip code.”

It’s not all that surprising that someone with such an awesome knife is also filthy rich, but Cas had always sort of assumed that it was the mob who had lots of money and the gangs that… went after other gangs. 

Months of fighting who Dean pointed him to, and he still doesn’t know much about how they work. 

That’s a little embarrassing. 

Or maybe Roman is just very unconventional. Either way, when Cas had pictured him, it was as some sort of movie villain. Holed up in an abandoned warehouse, twirling his mustache. 

He’s never actually asked— “How does he get away with it? It’s not like he tries to hide who he is…” 

“He’s got fingers in almost every gang,” Charlie says. “So none of them fuck with him, and he’s powerful enough that the city just doesn’t bother. Long as the poor kids keep killing each other…” 

Talk of killing is not making Cas more comfortable. But he’s not going to panic. He’s going to bring Dean home and he’s going to— he’s going to empty his college fund and sell all his mom’s jewelry and get the Winchesters an apartment if he can’t convince them to move into his parents’ bedroom since Chuck and Amelia don’t use it that much and anyway they can sleep on the sofa and—

Deep breath. Single-minded mission. Right. 

“So how do we find out if Dean’s there?” 

“Well, _if_ they took him, it’s more likely he’s there than in some shack somewhere. Easier to keep him, harder for him to escape, easier to hide and easier to claim they were just giving him a place to sleep if the police come. But I’d need to patch into the security to confirm, and that’ll take a while. And be more illegal than usual.” She hesitates. “Are we sure that he’s in trouble? I don’t really want to risk my freedom if— I mean, he could just…” 

_Please be just…_

They all look at each other. 

“He was wearing a white shirt with— I think it was a Microsoft one,” Jo says. “If that— you know, for the cameras.”

 _Cameras._ “No chance he has Masters security, right?” 

Charlie shrugs. “Probably does, all those bigshots do.” 

“Az Masters’s daughter goes to my school.” 

Everyone stops and stares at him. “What?” Victor says, with the air of someone who has just learned that his best friend’s brother was Steven Spielberg. 

There are benefits to going to the most expensive private school in the greater Seattle area. He doesn’t mention it much, tries to ignore it, but there it is: that divide, between him and everyone else in this room. 

“Are you two friends?” Jo asks. 

“Well, we made out at a party once.” Cas frowns. “She has some personal vendetta against Crowley, though, so if we tell her it’ll be bad news for him, I bet she’d be down.” He tosses his phone to Charlie. “Call her. Meg Masters. I’ll— go check around Sam’s school. If he’s just hiding— he wouldn’t leave Sam.” Has to go out and feel like he’s doing something. Cas gestures to his face. “Jo, you got anything that can… make me look less… suspicious?” 

Jo wrinkles here nose. “Who do you think I am?” pause. “Charlie probably can though, she does dress-up, like, professionally.” 

Charlie’s snort sounds very offended. “Cosplay, Joanna Beth. And yeah.” She’s in her backpack again, and nope, Cas isn’t going to wonder where she got _any_ of that stuff. “Let’s fix your face.”

II.  
It’s not until he’s gone home, changed into a clean polo, looked up the eighth-grade English teachers (because that’s the only class he knows Sam has) on the school website, and then waited for school to let out that he realizes he doesn’t really know what he’s going to say. 

Nothing comes to him on the drive over. 

The doors are unlocked, and it’s easy enough to just walk in: normally he’d wonder about the wisdom of leaving the doors open and what that means for Sam’s safety, but between worrying about Dean, worrying about getting arrested, worrying about Uriel and Crowley and his parents coming home early, he doesn’t have the energy. 

It’s a big school, but the doors are clearly marked— sixth grade English A, sixth grade English B, and he checks the list again.

There’s a stray sixth grader in the hall, and Cas tries to look less intimidating before approaching him. “Excuse me, do you know what room is Mrs. Mills’s?” 

The kid stares at him for a second, clutching his backpack and looking up and down the otherwise empty hallway. “She’s on the second floor, and a bit that way.” He points over his shoulder. “I think.” 

Cas thanks him and moves on. Wonders how scary he looks. How desperate. 

There are student essays on the wall outside Mills’s room, and he’s relieved when he finds Sam Winchester’s name. That wasn’t as hard as he expected. Now all he has to do is talk to people.

No way that could go wrong. 

A dark haired woman at a computer is visible through the open door. Cas isn’t quite sure what the protocol is here, so he just knocks on the frame a little. “Excuse me?” 

She looks up. Eyebrows coming together. “Can I help you?”

“Are you Mrs. Mills?” 

A nod. 

“Sam Winchester is in your class, right?” 

A frown, and a wave to come in. “Who are you?” 

“My name’s Cas.” But her eyes are lingering on his shirt. 

“You go to Garrison?” _Score._ He’ll feel bad about abusing his Garrison status so much later. Maybe. 

“I have an ID, if you want it.” It takes a moment to get said student ID out of his picket and into her outstretched hand. “I…” 

“Are you a friend of Sam’s?” Mrs. Mills looks at the card for a second before gesturing for him to sit. 

“I— mostly his brother. But— was Sam in school today?” 

She hesitates a second before answering. “He was.” 

“Did you see— did he say anything about what he was doing after school, or do you know who picked him up, or—” 

“No.” She still looks sort of suspicious, studying his face with a weird sort of intensity. Cas wonders if this is what other people object to about him. “What’s going on?” 

“I—” Don’t want to get them in trouble, but what if they’re already in trouble, what if Dean is already in trouble, and maybe she knows something. Kids talk in school, right? Even in a school as big as this one she might know something, one of the other teachers might, and he… “I don’t know if… I don’t want to get anyone in…” but her examination of his face must have yielded positive results, because— 

“I have one hundred and forty students,” Mrs. Mills says. And she’s looking a little more relaxed now, gaze more concerned than suspicious. “I— you come in as a teacher thinking you can be Miss Honey to all of them, but the truth is… the truth is, in a district like this, with funding like this, the best you can do is get them to pass your class despite all the different backgrounds. Some of my kids are driven to school by private chauffeurs, some search the sidewalk for bus money. As long as they’re fed, clothed and loved, the school doesn’t have the resources to watch them like we should— we don’t generally get involved, not unless there’s abuse.” She frowns. “Do you think his brother—” 

“ _No._ ” Cas tries not to be angry at the question. She doesn’t know Dean. She doesn’t know Dean, doesn’t know what he’s given up. “No, I just…” she’d probably be more comfortable if he stopped looking directly at her, but if he did that, he might miss something important. Anyway, she stared at him first. “Sam and Dean’s father disappeared— I think about eighteen months ago, but I don’t know exactly. They’ve been homeless since then, maybe even before that. I met them volunteering at the Roadhouse, which is this youth place a few miles—” 

“I know where it is,” she says, nodding for him to go on. 

“And Dean disappeared a few days ago. And I just… Sam says he isn’t worried, but Sam’s also mad at him, and Dean wouldn’t vanish without Sam. Ever. So we figure Sam’s either covering for him, or something’s—” his throat closes up. 

“Have you tried going to the police? How old is he?” And her fingers are curling, like she wants to pick up the phone. Cas finally looks away. 

“Eighteen,” he says. “And— the police wouldn’t… he’s a homeless teenager—” _prostitute_ “—and he’s only been gone since Monday, and…” _and if we don’t find him I don’t know what I’m going to do,_ he doesn’t say, although it might show on his face. “Just— do you know anything? Do you know who might?” 

She shakes her head. “No. I—” and Cas isn’t going to panic, he isn’t going to panic. He reaches up to touch his bruise again, and then he remembers, but he thinks he must have smudged some of the concealer because her eyes just narrowed, and she’s leaning forward a bit. 

“I—” 

“Cas?” she says slowly. “See, that’s one of the things we have to—”

He shakes his head. “It’s fine,” he says. “My fr— my—” stop, reconsider everything. “It was an isolated incident with a friend.” 

“Am I going to have to use my mom voice on you?” she asks. “Young man—” 

“The last few days have been complicated.” He’s had more parenting thrown at him in the last twenty-four hours than the last twenty-four days. And he’s going to need to think of a better answer, but she’s staring at him, arms crossed, and suddenly Cas realizes that if she Googles him or something the top hit is probably going to be that video, and he makes a mental note to get Charlie to take that down because that could have a negative impact on his future employability. When he has the time to care about getting a job, when he has time to care about the future. “I just need to find Dean,” he mutters. 

Mrs. Mills’s eyes are far too knowing when she nods. “If I hear anything—” 

Cas scribbles his e-mail address on a scrap of paper. “Thanks.” 

“At the beginning of the year, I asked students to write about their summer. Sam wrote about hunting a werewolf with his brother.” It occurs to Castiel then that for all the time he’s spent with Dean, and he knows Dean, he hardly knows Sam. A few conversations, a splurge of secrets, but overall… “He also had some very interesting things to say about Mayella Ewell.” 

It’s hard not to smile at that. 

“Sam’s a great kid,” Cas says. “And— and Dean, he’s not perfect, but he— they’re all they have, really, and he—” 

“I know. I— he’s talked about his brother, sometimes.” She’s the one who smiles. “Sam is very loved.” 

So is Dean. 

Cas bites down on the inside of his mouth. “Thank you, Mrs. Mills,” he says. “For—” 

“Jody,” she says, offering a hand for him to shake. “And I’m glad Sam has people like you watching out for him.” 

_People like me._ He tries not to snort. “I’ll— we’ll find Dean. You won’t have to call anyone, right?” 

She closes her eyes for a moment, massaging her forehead. “If he doesn’t turn up— if he doesn’t turn up, does Sam have anyone else?” 

“He’s got the Roadhouse. He— they’re good there, Ellen and Bobby. And there’s even sessions for like school and getting a GED and learning basic job skills and—” helps them with addiction if they need it. And he considers asking Jody if she knows a girl named Ruby, telling her to search Ruby’s locker and backpack, but he doesn’t. 

Dean is trying to trust Sam not to be stupid, and Cas can do the same. 

He just hopes he can trust him about Dean. 

 

 **THURSDAY**  
Jo shows up around noon. 

“Do you _ever_ go to class?” Castiel asks, perplexed. She snorts. 

“I’m the freak with the knife collection, people are probably relieved when I don’t show. Anyway, someone’s gotta keep you from…” her eyes stray to the table. “Doing calculus. Seriously, Cas?” 

“I’m suspended, I still have to do the work. Anyway.” He grimaces. “It keeps me from thinking.” 

“You do calc to _not_ think? There’s a rare breed.” 

“Shut up.” 

Jo shuts up, but that doesn’t stop her from helping herself to Cas’s Doritos. 

He manages to hold out for almost sixty seconds before asking, “You figure out anything new?”

“Charlie’s gonna call,” she says. “She went over to Meg’s house last night and basically downloaded Masters’s entire computer. Lucky for us, Roman is part of his clientele.” 

“He keeps all that information on his home computer?” Cas snorts. “That’s… not smart.” 

“Well, according to Charlie it was actually his heavily guarded laptop that links to his work computer that has links to the computers of all the little guys. So there were a few hoops, but Dick’s probably an important dude, so his stuff gets handled at the higher levels. And Charlie’s amazing.” 

He’s never thought of Meg as the most considerate of daughters, but it seems weird that she’d let a girl she just met do that. Also seems weird that Meg could just get some time alone with her dad’s computer— 

The phone rings. 

“That’s probably Charlie,” Jo says. Which is likely, but nobody calls the home number (except for that once—) and so he can’t help but hope, just for a moment—

Jo is correct. 

“Hello Charlie,” he says. Puts her on speaker and shoves the phone into the middle of the table. 

“Are all the girls at your school that hot?” she asks, voice barely distorted by the connection. “Because if so, I’m enrolling, stat.” 

“Uh….” 

“Did you sleep with her?” Jo interrupts. “Did my fake girlfriend sleep with my best friend’s drunken hook-up?” 

“Well that wasn’t my original plan but—” Charlie says, at the same time as Cas’s “We didn’t ‘hook up’—” but then he stops, because they should be focusing on Dean already. Even though he can’t help but mentally replay Jo’s last sentence, wonder if she’s his best friend too. Because he hasn’t heard anything else from any of the others, and… 

“I can’t believe you,” Jo grumbles. “Anyway. What’d you find?” 

“Okay. Cas, turn your computer on.” 

He does, and then— “How did you get this number?” 

“You gave me your cellphone, dumbass, but I had it earlier— who do you think gave it to Dean?” 

Dean. “My computer’s on.” 

“Okay, I’m screen-sharing with you on Skype. Answer me.” 

“How did you get my— never mind.” The call comes through, and he accepts. Charlie hangs up the phone, her voice now over the speakers. 

“So this is from Monday,” she says. “They brought someone in, but it just looks like the person was super drunk— he’s the one you can see there.” And it’s a light colored head, a man looking extremely inebriated, or drugged, or unconscious, and his t-shirt is white with something on it that could be the Windows logo, oh god, oh god. “It’s a little grainy, and…” 

“Zoom in,” he says. 

His voice is steady. 

She flicks between frames. “There’s a lot of pandemonium on the web, too. About something being picked up and looking for angels. Guys—” her voice cracks. And they’re on the last still she pulled, and he knows that face. He’s kissed that mouth. He— 

“Why didn’t you start off with this?” Cas can’t help but ask, because he wants to go through the pictures himself, because they could have saved five minutes, Dean, Dean, _Dean_ —

Her sign makes the speakers crackle. Then, an inhale. “Because I was hoping I could talk myself into being less terrified,” she admits. “Can I—” another deep breath. “So, here’s from the inside— you can see him going through a couple rooms, I got an approximate layout, because they had to mark where the cameras were. Dick is paying Az the big bucks, and by the way, I think Masters is pretty shady. There’s no camera in wherever Dean is, but I’ve been through the last few days and watched the live feed too and nobody’s brought him out.” 

“What if—” 

“I don’t think they’d kill him,” Jo says. “Not if he’s inside. I mean, they can’t exactly bring a body—” 

“They have ways to make those disappear, Jo, I saw it on TV—” 

But Jo’s hyperventilating now, too, eyes wide, and Cas needs— he needs— he’s halfway towards the bathroom before he remembers that his stash is gone, and Charlie’s on the other end saying “Guys, guys, don’t freak out, I’m already sort of freaking out, please don’t freak out too, I don’t know if I can handle this.” 

“Meet us at the Roadhouse,” Jo says. When she leans towards the microphone, her hair swings forward to cover her face. And Cas can’t seem to move from the doorway, because what are they doing to him, what are they— why is Dean so much less, why couldn’t they have just taken Cas in the first place, why— and he knows logically why but he— and Crowley—

And he’s going to kill Crowley, he’s going to burn him alive for this—

Just as soon as they get Dean back. 

_Dean._

He looks at the couch once, then away, and then Jo closes the computer and shoves it into her bag. 

“C’mon, Cas,” she says. Grabs his arm. “We’re gonna get him back, we just have to… plan. And stuff.” 

“I—” 

Her fingers tangle with his, and then she hesitates a second before wrapping the other arm around his back. Pulling him closer, and Cas doesn’t know who she’s trying to comfort, but it works. He remembers a second later that he’s supposed to hug her back, and so he does. 

Then he’s pulled towards the front door. “We’ll get him back,” she says. “Charlie’s a magician, Benny’s tough as nails, you’re the Angel. We’ll _get him back._ ” 

“If we know where he is— you don’t think the police could—” 

“You think the police would barge into Roman’s house and rescue them? He’s practically funding the new basketball arena. And—the only evidence we have we got so so illegally, inadmissible, and—so even if they got a warrant—they could just say Dean’s a homeless kid they’re trying to— help—” her voice cracks on the last word, and it takes her a couple tries to open the car door. 

“Can you drive?” Cas asks. “Are you okay to—” 

“I’m fine.” Her smile is very not fine, but Cas figures he’s not in better shape, because he can’t think can’t breathe— “We’re going to get him back,” Jo says again. “We’re going to get him back, we’re going to—” 

Cas presses his head against the window. 

_We’re getting you out of there, Dean_ , he thinks, and wishes Dean could hear him.

 

III.  
Charlie has apparently gotten word to Sam and Benny, who apparently got word to Victor and Gordon, and they’re all up in the conference room when Jo and Cas arrive. 

“You know you’re really not supposed to be in here,” Jo says, a good deal calmer than she had been in the car. 

“Bobby said if we were going to keep having loud, spoiler-y discussions about Iron Man we could damn well do it where he can’t hear.” Benny sounds rather proud of himself for this tactic. “Anyway, it’s all hectic downstairs with lunch clean-up.” 

“Right.” Jo sits down. 

Calm. He’s calm, too, but he’s probably not doing a good job of looking calm because Sam’s eyes are wide when he looks at him. “Cas, are you okay?” 

“I attacked the principal, got suspended, now Dean’s gone missing, but not before he stole all my aspirin,” Cas snaps, and then apologizes because Dean is Sam’s brother and nobody’s happy. 

“Oh.” Sam goes quiet. 

“I told them—” Charlie waves a hand. “I told them what I know.” 

“So what’s the deal?” Victor asks. “We go in, bust him out?” 

“Something like that.” Cas leans over the house’s floor plan, because maybe if he stares at it, an answer will come. There’s the walls and the gate and the windows and the really how much house does one Dick need? 

Sam raises a hand. “We could—” 

“ _You’re_ not anything,” Cas says. And okay. He can calm. Detached. He can do this, he needs to be rational, that’s all this is. He’s going to be goddamn Spock for the rest of the day. He can do this. “Dean would kill us. He’s not here to keep you safe, so that’s _our_ job.” 

“But—”

“I know he’d rather sit in there then let you die getting him out.” Cas looks at Sam, then, and Sam isn’t crying, but maybe it would be easier if he was.

“Yeah,” Sam says. “You think Dean would rather something happened to _you?_?” 

Cas knows he would. And maybe that’s what this is. Maybe, in fucking impossible circumstances, he’s finally figured out how to love Dean selflessly. How to be glad that Dean doesn’t care as much about him, just in case something happens. That way he can save Dean, and give him back to Sam, and that’s what will be important. 

It’s a bittersweet revelation. 

“Dean loves you,” Sam says, as though it’s a challenge, and Cas has to resist the urge to cringe away from the words. 

“You don’t have to say stuff like that.” _Wefucked._ “It’s fine. I’m going in anyway, Sam, don’t worry.” 

He looks a fraction more upset. “But—” 

Charlie shushes him. 

_Die getting him out._ Cas’s earlier words come back to him, and he considers. 

The concept of death isn’t frightening right now. He can sleep, he doesn’t mind being asleep. He figures he won’t know he’s dead, so it’ll be okay. And maybe there’s even a heaven. He’ll be fine, because that’s what he is, and so it’s good that Uriel cut ties, that he’s been distancing himself from Balth and Gabe, because that way they won’t be as sad— _it’ll be okay._

It’ll be okay. 

“So I can disable the security cameras,” Charlie says, “and the alarms, so they won’t know you’re coming. Until they see you, anyway. The only room not on the cams is the spare bedroom, so that’s probably where they’re keeping him—” Cas doesn’t get the urge to vomit this time, just the urge to kill someone— “and that’s over here.” She points at the spot on the map. 

Gordon shakes his head slowly. “This is suicide. There’s no way we can climb the fence without them noticing—” 

“You don’t have to climb the fence,” Jo says. 

“What?” 

There’s a weird sort of light in her eyes. “We go tomorrow, it’ll be Friday night, right? I’ll put on a dress, ask them if I can borrow a phone, my car broke down and I’m just a dumb blonde whose plans for the night are shot to hell. They’ll let me in.” 

A pause. Gordon considers this for a minute, eyes traveling down Jo’s body in a way that makes Cas want to jump up with a sheet to defend her honor. Or something. “That’d work.” 

“What?” Benny splutters. “No. No way—” 

“C’mon. Gordon taught me to knife-fight, remember? I can handle them.” 

_No way, not putting Jo in danger—_

_She’s not some little girl to be protected—_

_What if—_

_But Dean—_

Cas settles for not commenting, just tracing the walls of the house. For all its grandeur, there’s only one level: but maybe it’s more dangerous to have an upper floor. Easier for a sniper to get to you, easier for people to spy… 

“What are you going to do when you get inside?” Sam asks. “It’s a Friday night, maybe that’s when they have the gangster throwdown or something.”

“I’m going to unlock the kitchen window.” Jo’s voice reaching a steely tone that reminds Cas suddenly of Ellen. 

“I can get you a bug,” Charlie says. “Make it look like a necklace or earring or something. So you can say when the window is unlocked— code, whatever, _mischief managed,_ I don’t know— and then the others can come in.” 

“Wait.” Victor frowns. “How are you going to do that without them noticing?”

“I’m going to stand with my back to it and unlock it with one hand.”

“And they won’t—”

Jo’s glare is rather fierce. “They’ll be distracted.” 

Maybe their life has suddenly become a TV show. Sitting around a conference table, planning a rescue mission from one of the city’s most powerful people— “Convenient that he’s just in the city,” Cas mutters. “Not on the east side like all the others.” So that their license plates wouldn’t be tagged, going over the bridge… 

“Well, Bill probably didn’t want to be brushing elbows with gangsters,” Charlie says. “Dick is powerful, but he’s not the _biggest_ dick. I mean, ask him on the street, hardly anyone knows his name—” 

“Except for Levis, Digos, Vamps, Demons—”

Charlie waves a hand. “So not the point. The Mayor’s office certainly knows about him, and all that, but he stays out of the news. Even when he funded the stadium, he did it through Enterprise. The naming of which was his first sin, one shouldn’t desecrate the—” 

Benny leans over to pat her hand. “There, there.” 

She scowls at him. 

_Dean Dean Dean Dean Dean._

“That still doesn’t give us a way to get _to_ the kitchen window,” Gordon says. “Unlocked or no.” 

“Well, they’ll be occupied with letting Jo in, right?” Victor drums his fingers on the table, a repeating rhythm. “So we either turn the cameras off, or put them on a loop from earlier, that’d prob’ly be safer, come to think, and then the brick wall is, what— six feet?” 

Charlie nods. 

“I’m five-eleven,” Cas says, “and Benny’s taller than me. We just hook a rope on, if we need one, and then hop over.” 

“And when they catch and shoot us—” 

“Not many people will be there,” Charlie says. “I’ll post something about Enterprise being a sham and a cover-up for gang activity. Make it come from the North end. He’ll send his best down to deal with the poster. Also, the Demons and Rugarus are going to have a fight in Rainier Valley, due to some insults thrown around and a long-running rivalry. They’re hashing it out _West Side Story_ style, and since Dick’s basically a patron of both sides, it’ll be in his best interest to maintain the animosity but not have any casualties. So he’ll send people to keep it just as violent as necessary.” 

Victor is staring at her, open-mouthed. “Why are you not a cop?” 

“Wouldn’t pass a background check. But it’s really just what King Arch did in _Looking Glass—_ ” 

“Are they _actually_ having a fight?” Benny asks. “Because I haven’t—”

“They will be. That’s the frailty of the internet. Anyway, neither side is going to object. They’ve been looking for an excuse to take each other down.” 

Gordon’s lip curls. “Let ‘em knock each other out.” Then— “I don’t know, though. I mean most likely option here is that we all end up dead. An’ I’ve been fighting alongside Dean for years, but… I don’t wanna die if he’s just gonna die too.” 

“We risk dying ever’ time we go out,” Benny says. 

“They won’t kill us. If they kill us,” and Cas is a little alarmed at how calm he is about that whole possibility, “then they’ll have five bodies to deal with, all teenagers, and that’ll be a stink. They’d have a strong case for self-defense, but there’d still be an investigation, and then it’d be impossible to cover up his gang ties. Because you don’t even have to dig too deep to find them. And if Roman’s stayed okay so far, stays under the radar, it means he’s not stupid. So he won’t kill us.” 

Sometime between blinks, Charlie had gotten her laptop out, and begun typing. “Yeah, it’s kind of an open secret— nobody likes him, but they can’t get rid of him, even with the illegal shit. He’s like Wall Street. But if there were five bodies in his house then they’d have no way to get around— not to encouraging you to wear suicide vests, you understand.” 

“Six bodies,” Sam says. 

They all turn to glare at him. “No,” Jo says, “I bet they’d let Dean go because—” 

“I’m coming.” 

This gets a resounding negative reaction. 

“I can fight,” Sam says. “And my dad taught me how to shoot a gun when I was, like, two. I have awesome aim, and if you don’t let me come with you then I’ll follow you and probably get hurt and then Dean would kill you.” He tilts his head up, sticks out his chin, and “Dean’s my _brother._ ” 

Silence. 

Sam looks at Cas, almost daring expression. 

And, okay, if that’s how they’re playing this. 

“My dad also taught me how to get out of handcuffs,” Sam says helpfully. “And pick locks. And I’m only going to eat packaged food from now until tomorrow so you can’t drug me.” 

“You’re a little shit,” Gordon says, although there’s not as much malice as usual. 

“Okay, then..” Jo takes a deep breath. “You guys… do the pep talk. Charlie…” she flutters her eyelashes. “Take a girl to buy something slutty?”

Charlie raises her eyebrows. “You _bet._ ” 

They leave. 

The others look at each other. Cas feels like he should say something along the lines of ‘you don’t have to go with us, really,’ but he can’t bring himself to— because they’re going to need all the help they can get. Tamara and Isaac are lucky he’s not down there drafting them. They’re lucky he’s not emptying his college fund paying all the regulars to storm everyone—

College fund—

“There’s no chance we can just bribe him?” Cas asks. Shoving down every instinct that’s telling him to attack and tear and kill. He pulls the knife out of his pocket. “I mean, I still got this—”

Benny considers for a second. “Mayb—”

“No way,” Gordon says. “There’s no way. He wants the guys that have been limiting his expansion, yeah? He can probably shit out swords like that, and all the money your dad makes sellin’ those books is prob’ly pocket change.”

“I don’t know,” Victor says. “If we promise not to fuck with them again—”

“No.” Gordon keeps shaking his head. “No way.”

“So that’s that, then.” Benny pushes away from the table and stands. “Not a word of this to anyone, or each other.”

They all nod.

“Cas, you good for rope?” 

“Yes.”

“Meet here at four?” 

Nods all around. 

“Stay safe.” 

Everyone laughs. 

 

IV.  
He might die tomorrow. 

He mightdietomorrow.

He.

Might

Die

Tomorrow.

The idea that he was so ready to accept in the meeting room seems so different now, so— oh, God, he might die tomorrow. This might be his last night alive. 

_What the hell are you doing, Novak?_

He reaches automatically for his phone, because it’s a Thursday night but that doesn’t mean Gabe and Balthazar aren’t up for hanging out— he should talk to them— but if he does he might lose his nerve. 

He should just sit here quietly. Reflecting, sum his life into one meaning, one pithy line. And that’s what he might have done, if Jo hadn’t texted him.

 _Jo Harvelle_  
\- _Come over?_

- _I don’t actually know where you live._

\- _Lincoln apt, 1E._

Cas looks up a map.

- _There in 15._

And maybe that’s how it’s always going to be. He checks that all the windows are locked, that there’s nothing incriminating left in his room, because he knows he’s coming back here in the morning, if not tonight, but it still feels… final. He tests the doorknob twice before he’s confident enough in its locked status that he can get into the car.

When he reaches the door to the Lincoln complex, he texts Jo instead of ringing the buzzer, because it’s ten thirty and Ellen is probably asleep. Sure enough, Jo comes out into the hall, letting him in herself. Leads him back to the apartment. 

“Is your mom—”

She nods to the bedroom by the door. “She’s a really heavy sleeper, though. Drink?”

There’s an empty beer bottle on the floor by the fridge, a half-full one next to it. “We probably don’t want hangovers tomorrow,” Cas says, uncertain. 

“Not getting drunk. Here.”

He takes the offered beer, and sits next to her on the floor.

They’re silent for a couple minutes.

“Feel like I should be out partying or something,” Jo says. “You know. Last night alive. I’m pretty sure we’re supposed to have sex, narratively speaking, except I’m not attracted to you at all, you’re in love with Dean, and depending on how things go I might get my pre-death sex tomorrow. Even if they do decide to kill us all.”

Not even a little drunk, Castiel’s ass. But he nods anyway. “Are you— what are you going to do if—”

“If I have to fuck them to keep up the illusion? Or if things get out of control and they rape me?”

“Yes.”

Her laugh is a little broken. “Well if it’s inevitable, I suppose I should sit back and enjoy it, isn’t that what they say?” 

Cas takes a gulp before answering. “You’re more up on that than I am.”

“God, I can’t believe I’m…” she shakes her head. “Makes me feel— _eugh._ I’ve had no trouble… you know, when I want to hook up with someone, I’ll say just about anything, and if things go according to plan I’m just going to have to do some flirting, but this is… makes me feel slimy.” 

“You know what’s funny?”

“What.”

“First conversation I had with Dean, we were talking about _Avengers._ Specifically Black Widow. And now you’re…” 

“I’m strapping a knife to my leg. Just in case.” Drink, swallow. “If it’s not a situation I can— fight my way out of, I’ll just giggle and say something about the knife being in case big strong men tried to get in my pants. Stall, you know?” she snorts, and there’s a layer of self-disgust in her voice. “I’ve been told I can be a magnificent cocktease. But if I have to— if we need time, or if, and if—and— if Dean can… with Alastair, then I can… and then I can just get Plan B, or something, and… _oh my god_ , it’s been months, since I’ve, what if, it’s—” she wraps her mouth around the bottleneck again, chugging maybe a third of it.

“I was sucking Crowley off,” Cas says, because everyone is having non-consensual sex for far more noble reasons than him. Because he wants to tell her to stab any penises that get into her personal space, but Jo’s an adult and can handle herself, set her own boundaries, knows what she’s doing and the risks. “That’s why we were in the office. Not for drugs. I was giving him fellatio with the _promise_ of drugs, but—”

“Oh.” Jo’s face crumples a little. “I’m sorry, Cas, I was just really worried—”

“It’s fine,” he says, because it’s true. “I’m— I should have stayed, Jo, this would never have happened if I’d just stayed that night, or let him mind his own business on the street, or—”

“Hey. No. You would have found out about Alastair eventually, and Crowley would have figured… we can’t do that. It’s my fault for introducing you, if you want to go that route. My fault for—” she rubs her nose on her sleeve, then takes another drink. “Let’s not do that.” 

“Okay.” 

But she doesn’t stop talking, and this is good, because it means she isn’t drinking as much and Cas can get away with drinking more. “You know, I used to think that kind of love is what everyone gets.” 

“What?” 

“You and Dean. The drama and the opposing forces trying to keep you apart and the willingness to die for him and the… it’s TV shit, movie shit, I thought that’s what I was waiting for, yanno? Some big story like that. And now that it’s happening to you, I can just think, thank God it’s not me.” 

He has to laugh a little. “I don’t blame you.” 

“He does love you, you know. Sam wasn’t just trying to get you to go save him.” 

Can’t hear this, don’t want to hear this. 

“Jo.” Another pull. “I can’t— he—” Cas slooshes his remaining beer into a whirlpool. “I…” 

“I just thought you should know, since he’d probably never tell you.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Cas says. “I— we have to save him, that’s all I know. I can’t think about after. We’re never going to be going on dates, or holding hands in the street, or getting naked and painting ourselves rainbow for pride—”

“—That’s a shame, because I’d have no objection to that—”

“That’s just not _us_ , even if there was an us to be. So I guess it doesn’t matter.”

“It matters,” she says. “Of course it matters. You love each other, the date shit is irrelevant. I mean, my parents weren’t that conventional either— my mom’s always been sort of distant, and sometimes I’d worry about them, but then when he died— God.” 

“How did he die?” Are these things friends should already know about each other?

“He was a cop.” She smiles a little bit at the irony. “’Bout ten years ago, he— got shot dead, on the job, so it’s just me and Mom, and you know what the worst part of all of this is?” she doesn’t wait for Cas to ask. “The worst part is that… that Gordon and Victor and Benny? They don’t _have_ parents, not anymore, and people would miss them but you can get over losing a friend, we all lost Ronnie, a couple others, we survived, but losing a kid— and so part of me feels like it’s more okay if they die because they don’t have families, whereas me, I have my mom, and she’s already lost Dad, and maybe she’ll lose me, and how fucked up is that? I’m not worth more than them, I’m not _better_ than them, it’s goddamn _awful_ that they’d basically be forgotten, but I can’t help—” she’s crying for real now, and somewhere in there Cas realizes that she’s finished the second beer. “How pathetic is that? Because if— if I don’t, make it out, it’ll kill my mom, and I don’t see how she’ll be able to run the Roadhouse anymore, when it’s the reason I’m— I’m not much but— it’s—” she hides her face in her hands. “I’m the one that’s probably in the least danger in this whole plan, and I still feel like— How horrible is that?” 

Not as horrible as Cas, because he realizes that in all his pondering of the impending danger, he hasn’t once thought of his parents. Thought of what they’ll think if they get a call, or if he just disappears, what they’ll— but at least they’ll have Anna. They won’t be alone. And they’ll have each other. And though he knows in his mind that that’s not true, he can’t help but feel that they won’t miss him all that much. That their lives will go on as normal.

Jo sniffs again, and points to the notebook on the table. “I… I tried to write her a letter, you know, open just in case— but I didn’t know how—” 

“That’s a good idea,” Cas says. And then, because he’s not so good with this but he’s pretty sure physical contact, even when not fighting, is comforting, he puts the hand not holding his bottle around her shoulders. She leans into him.

“I wrote an email. Saying where we were going and what we were doing and stuff. I have this compsci teacher, Mr. Deverereaux, he’s this big conspiracy theorist and he mentioned at some point that he has these emails that go out unless he tells them not to every month. And I asked him how to do it, so— so. That’s a— a thing. It’ll go to Mom, Bobby, Rufus, then they can call the police…” 

Cas nods. 

“Letters are a good idea,” he says. “I— I should—”

She works her way out from under his arm and opens the fridge again. The twenty-four pack seems to be dangerously low. “I should try again. I’ll get some paper.” Because his parents will deserve an explanation, too. And— and Gabe, and Balthazar, and fuck, even Uriel, because he might have broken off their friendship but he’s still Cas’s brother. And Dean, too, in case he doesn’t make it out but Dean does. 

Jo returns with another pad of paper and a chewed ballpoint. 

One for his parents, one for Anna, one for his brothers, one for Dean, hell, one for Ellen and Bobby, and Mrs. Mills because if Cas and Jo are gone, then, what the hell, she should know, so she can tell who she has to tell, and— and he can make a note that Balthazar should get his favorite CDs, and— other junk— there’s a stash of candy under his bed, and if anyone should get that, that’s Gabriel, and— and he has so many people, how can he just— 

They all have people, and everyone’s risking it, for Dean, because that’s the loyalty Dean brings out in people, and because they’d do it for any of the others, they’re a team, as stupid and weird as that is, they’re a hipster gang and they don’t abandon their people. 

“Jo?” 

“Hmm?” 

“I— we’ve been through much together, and I… it’s been fucked up, but I wouldn’t trade that for anything, so don’t—”

She cuts him off. “Have you ever seen _Buffy?_ ” 

“No.” 

“There’s this scene at the end, and the big battle is about to go down, and her sister is gonna be fighting in some other area and Buffy tries to go after her and Dawn says ‘anything you say now is going to sound like goodbye.’ And—”

“We’re writing goodbye letters,” Cas points out. 

“That’s different, that’s a precaution, I—” another sniff. “People write wills. It’s in case. Maybe it’s— like carrying a raincoat on a cloudy day. If you do, it won’t rain, but if you don’t, it will—” 

“That doesn’t make any sense.” He gets an elbow in the ribs for this comment. “Do— do both Buffy and the sister survive?”

“Spoilers,” she says, very quietly. “I guess you’ll have to watch. Next weekend, marathon?” 

Cas doesn’t promise that, he can’t and she knows he can’t. He pops the top off another bottle instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Highway to Hell](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mBjwMSIC7ik)


	11. Angels Have Fallen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for non-graphic torture.

_At least I don’t have to worry about where we’re going to sleep at night._

He laughs at that thought. Probably sounds insane, but, whatthehell. He’s allowed. He’s handcuffed to a bed, a freaking _bed,_ in what is probably the most gorgeous building he’s ever been in, in what is probably the most terrifying situation he’s ever been in, and he's laughing. They're not here right now to notice.

So far, they seem mostly to be asking him about Castiel. _The Angel_ — _I don’t know his name, I don’t know who he is or where he lives, he was just the Angel and I saw him sometimes, don’t hurt me anymore please I don’t know anything._ Because if there’s one thing he learned from Alastair, it was how to beg convincingly. 

Well, mostly convincingly. Dick’s goons tend to get bored of poking him with knives and cigarettes pretty quickly, since he doesn’t react as much as they want him to— although some of the more serious injuries are courtesy of Edgar, with no apparent provocation, because he never quite got over the whole ‘having his friends get knocked out and being humiliated in the street and then having an ambulance come for them’ thing. Apparently. 

Dean’s admission that the Angel was the one to call nine-one-one apparently didn’t get him any leeway. 

Neither did “I wasn’t even _there_ that night, you son of a bitch.” 

Still. 

He tells himself, over and over, that he’s had worse. 

That if they’re still asking him about Cas, then that means Cas is okay. 

He’s also pretty sure, although he can’t turn around to get a good look at it, that the bed is made out of a tree like that one in the Odyssey, because no matter how hard he’s pulled he can’t move it. Knees braced against the ground, leaning forward, joints nearly dislocated. 

Boris had been pretty entertained by the sight of him trying, and had then decided to rub one off on Dean’s back. 

At least the fucker had come in his pants. 

Most of the time, though, they seem to leave him alone. Dick has things to do, not many people get free reign of his (His, for they all seem to refer to him as a god,) house, and the man Himself has yet to make more than one appearance. 

On his list of ‘what to be afraid of if I’m ever taken hostage,’ boredom and shitting himself due to lack of bathroom breaks had never been up there..

But he’s doing okay now. If they don’t give him much to eat, there’s not much to come out. And he can do starvation. He’s done it before. 

The boredom is more pressing. 

After counting the stripes on the wall twice, and memorizing the titles of the Self-Help books on the shelf, he’s moved on to alphabet games.

Anything to keep from thinking about Sammy and Cas and what if they’ve gotten Victor and Gordon and Benny too and Sammy and Sammy and Cas and Sammy and Sammy and Sammy and Cas and Cas and Sammy.

“AC/DC,” he mutters. “Black Sabbath. Um… Coldplay. Don McLean. The Eagles… Florence and the Machine.” 

“Goo Goo Dolls,” says a helpful voice from the door. “Helen Reddy. Ice-T. Pretty weird playlist, if you ask me.” 

Well, this is a new one. 

The woman who walks in is— she’s pretty, he figures, long brown hair and a dress that leaves zero to the imagination. He hasn't seen her before.

“Could have done Eurythmics for _E_ , too.” And now she’s pushing his knees down and straddling his lap, which, _what?_ “Sweet Dreams are Made of This.” 

“Yeah… I don’t know. Strangely, I’m not a fan of this set-up.” Dean nods his head at the room. He’d use his hands to gesture, but he’s been curling and uncurling them just to keep the blood flow moving. 

“So…” her hand is trailing up the back of his neck now. And he has to remind himself that this isn’t as bad when the red haired woman made him eat from a dog bowl. Look ma, no hands. 

“So?”

“What’s up?” 

“I dunno.” He tries for calm. “What’s the weather like?” 

“Cloudy with a chance of falling angel.” She locks her arms around his neck, and leans back. Frowns. “Wow, that was bad.” 

“Little bit.” 

“You know, we’re willing to re-negotiate. All you have to give us is a name. A real name. Then we’ll let you out.” Dean opens his mouth to not answer, but then there’s a finger on his lips. “ _Don’t_ give us that bullshit about not knowing anything. Just a name, Dean-o.” 

Jo calls him that when she’s being sarcastic. 

He grits his teeth. 

“Loyal.” The woman nods. “That’s a good quality in a man. Don’t see it enough these days. I’m Casey, by the way.” 

“Nice to meet you, Casey.” Her breath smells like cinnamon gum, and he wants it out of his face. Don’t think of Cas, don’t think of Cas, because maybe she can read his mind, maybe she can see it, and, God, _Cas_ , attacking Alastair and is he okay, is he okay, is Alastair going to go after him—

 _I’msosorryCaspleasebeokay_. 

“ _Ugh._ ” Casey gets off him, and rummages under the bed for a moment to produce— is that a soldering iron? 

Why yes, it seems to be a soldering iron. 

There is no way this can end well. 

“Finally brought out the big guns, then?” be not afraid, be not afraid. “Was this the backup plan, in case sexual harassment didn’t work?” 

She shrugs. “Pretty much.” And maybe it can melt the handcuffs, maybe if he can— do something— “Do you believe in God, Dean?” 

Once, he’d believed in his father. “No.” 

Casey settles back into his lap, then, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “What about angels?” And if she wants to play… fine. Dean lifts his chin. 

“Only one.” 

_CasCasCasCasCas._

She shakes her head a few times, before pulling out a pair of scissors and cutting his shirt off. 

“What the hell, lady?” 

“Just… checking you out.” She trails one fingernail down his chest, around the bruises and scars. Then she picks up the soldering iron again, holds it like a pencil as she considers. “Here, can you tell me if it’s warm enough?” 

_AlastairwasworseI’vehadworseI’vehadworseI’vehadworse._ He reminds himself of this as he grits his teeth. Closes his eyes. Tries to think about anything but the hot metal burning his skin. She seems to be doing a design on his breast, or maybe she’s trying to burn his heart out, he doesn’t know. _Anticipation makes it worse anticipationmakesitworse anticpmakswrose_ they’re just sounds, now, and he’s holding them in, _CasCasCas SammySammySammy CasSammyJoSammyCasCasCas_ don’t think about—

The pain doesn’t seriously kick in for a couple minutes, the awareness finally coming from the earlier burn, little nerves or whatever finally showing up and then not stopping it’s rush-hour traffic as everything _holyfuckgod_ — 

“Careful, Casey. I need to talk to our guest.” 

She gets off him immediately, but without that distraction everything just hurts more, and he can do this, _hadworsehadworse_ he’s not sure if he’s actually had worse, because at least the cuts stopped hurting pretty fast, and there’s Him, the honored guest, black hair and pointy nose. 

Those are the only characteristics that are supervillain-ish, though. He’s a white American businessman, down to the suit. 

And Dean has to start this off first, upper hand, because he’s not telling them anything they can’t get Cas, not the others…

“Hi Dick,” he croaks. 

Roman pulls up a chair and sits down. Waves at Casey to leave. 

“So. Dean. Sorry it took me so long to get to you. I’m a busy guy.” 

“It’s cool,” Dean says. He’s not in pain he’s not in pain he’s not going to wince or hiss or even look down to see what Casey did. “I’m just… hanging out.” 

Dick leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You’ve been roughing up my boys for months,” he says. “Hell, maybe longer, before it got back to me. Now, I like a little competition— with them competing against each other, it’s a win-win-win-win. For them… for me…” he studies his fingernails, presumably for effect. “But then… the Angel showed up. And he got a _reputation._

“Everyone likes a legend, of course. Something to brag about to their drinking buddies, you know the drill. Stay sharp, in case the Angel comes. And between the dramatic appearances, and the coat, and the knife, and the voice that half my boys jack off too—” _baiting me baiting me baiting me don’t react don’t react_ but he might have reacted anyway because Dick looks somehow satisfied. “Well, anyway, after what he did to poor Edgar— don’t make that face, I know you weren’t there— I thought it’s finally time to find this guy. It’s all well and good when he’s helping guys stay fit, but having an ambulance come for one of my best?” 

“Is this torture?” Dean asks. “Am I being tortured? You could record insomnia tapes, man.” 

“Am I boring you?” Roman sighs. “Apologies. Kids these days, and their attention spans. I blame YouTube and Cartoon Network. But I’ll try and get to the interesting part, keep it in the forty-two minute time frame. The part where I know you’ve been lying, and the part where—” all joking, fake cheer is gone now, and his eyes are steel, “—the sooner you tell us where we can find him, the less he’ll suffer. Tell me now, and we’ll just shoot him. And spread photos of his body across the internet, of course. Tell me tomorrow, and we might… I don’t know. Torture him a bit first. Hell.” Suddenly he’s back to the joking, easygoing, politician-style fake friend. Leaning back in his seat, twiddling his thumbs. “If we find him without you— and if you continue to be stupid, we will— it’ll be a public event. You’ll be invited, too. VIP seating. Slow execution. With dicks, of course. I love a good pun. Humiliation on a scale you wouldn’t believe. Get rid of an enemy, and give my guys a morale boost.” _don’treactdon’treactdon’treact_. Dick’s eyes stray to the soldering iron Casey left unplugged on the carpet. “There’s all sorts of places you can stick one of those.” 

Can’t react can’t breathe Cas Cas Cas Cas and Dean opens his mouth and Dean closes his mouth and Dean presses his eyebrows together in a glare. “What, you scared of one dude in a trench coat?” 

“It’s all about image,” Dick says, voice smooth. And he can’t— how can he be so calm, after— saying— and Dean bites his tongue but it doesn’t— 

“You even think about touching him, and I’ll kill you.” 

Snakelike, Dick slides off the chair and onto his knees, face inches from Dean’s. 

“I’m thinking about it,” he whispers. “I’m thinking about _all_ the things I could do to him. So go ahead.” And Dean strains against the handcuffs but the bed isn’t moving and Cas _CasCasCasCas_ — and then Roman’s mouth is right next to his ear. “What are you going to do about it?” 

Dean pulls harder. And they stay like that for a moment, and Dean can smell the other man’s breath, see his face reflected in his eyes, and then Roman smiles and stands up. “Just a little something to think about.”

 

II.  
Ellen does not look amused. 

“You’re staying at a boy’s house overnight, and you’re asking my _permission?_ ” 

“Come on, Mom.” Jo smiles, then flings one arm around Castiel’s shoulders. “Cas here is gayer than Liberace.” 

Cas just stands there and tries to look gay. 

Ellen rolls her eyes. 

“Whatever. Be safe.” 

Jo manages to hold it together until they get in the car, and then makes a sound that’s something between a laugh and a sob. “ _Be safe._ ” 

“It does seem to be an unrealistic option, given our current plans.” Cas nods a few times. Then— “Liberace?” 

“Well, you know.” She shrugs. “It just kinda popped into my head.” 

Cas just rolls his eyes. “Good thing she didn’t check your bag.” 

“Yeah.” Jo rummages around for a moment, pulls out the silky black thing that she and Charlie had found somewhere. Waits for Cas to give it a glance before hiding it back out of sight. “It’s a good thing I don’t go out much, or this would show off some pretty weird tan lines.” 

“You feeling okay?” Turn indicator, light changes, turn… 

“Yeah. Are you?”

“Yeah.” 

“Good.” 

More streets. Cas’s house. Get out, go inside. Jo shuts the blinds before peeling her shirt off. 

Cas frowns at her. First Anna, now this? “Why are you getting naked?” 

She throws the shirt at him. “I’m not getting naked, but there’s no way in Hell I can get into this thing on my own.” 

He has to stare for an extra couple minutes after she turns around. He hasn’t spent too much time in the lingerie department, despite Gabriel’s best attempts, but all the bra clasps he’s seen are little wire hooks. The clasp on Jo’s back is not a little wire hook. 

“I am not familiar with brassieres,” he says, “but that looks—” 

“Like a metal chain link puzzle?” The dress is yanked out of the bag and glared at. “That’s sort of the point, dumbass.” Her head disappears into the fabric, and what follows is a strange sort of topless wiggle. “ _Help,_ you fuck!” 

“Right.” Cas approaches carefully, lest she hit him with a flailing arm, and then proceeds to pull on the parts that he thinks are supposed to be pulled on until her head appears, and her arms are free enough that she could probably kill a man. 

“Thanks,” she says, a little breathless from the near suffocation. “Zip?” 

“Right.” 

He moves around behind her and does the zipper. “For something that covers such a small amount of skin, this seems unnecessarily complicated.” 

“You’re telling—” Jo violently removes her lulus and flings them in another random direction— “me.”

She leans over her bag again, and pulls out knife and sheath duct-taped to what appears to be half of a belt. She then hikes up what the dress apparently considers to be a skirt— Cas is at this point too confused to wonder if he should look away— and straps the contraption to her upper thigh. Then steps back, brushes off the front of her dress, and spreads her arms. “Well?” 

“I… your hair looks like it lost a fight with static electricity. And the dress doesn’t go with those sneakers.” 

She reaches up to touch her hair, makes a face, then heads towards the bathroom. Pausing en route to give Castiel a pat on the arm. “You’re getting better at this whole ‘gay’ thing.” 

He follows her, because he isn’t sure what he should be doing right now. His letters are all under his pillow, the two functional guns are cleaned and loaded and waiting by their extra ammo, Bobby’s shotgun is waiting under a bush for Castiel to retrieve it, and now all they have to do is crash into what is probably a very secure building and rescue Dean. 

No problem. 

After a long, mostly one-sided discussion in which Jo decides to wear her hair up so that it won’t get in her face when she’s fighting for her life, they’re left with no other distractions. 

“I’m meeting the others at four,” Cas says, as though Jo doesn’t already know this. “Go over plans, um, strategies.” 

“Yep.” 

“And the car Gordon stole for you is waiting outside the Starbucks on Fourth.” 

“Which Starbucks?” 

“The one next to the indie clothing store.” 

She stares at him for a moment, and then snorts. “Well, I’m sure that dressed like this I can convince someone to point the way.” 

He doesn’t have anything to say to that, so he just shrugs. He wants to say to be careful, but they can’t. He wants to say get Dean out no matter what, but she will. He wants to say thanks for being my friend, but that sounds like a goodbye. 

He settles on “Good luck.” 

 

III.  
Castiel picks the others up at various points around town. It’s a bit like a scavenger hunt. 

Once they get the all-clear from Charlie, they take up positions behind Roman’s wall. 

Gordon grins. “Welcome to Jericho.” 

Personally, Cas would compare their battle plan to that of Jael or Delilah or the Trojan Horse, but he keeps that to himself. 

 

IV.  
If Dean were here, he’d love the ear piece. “James Bond, man,” he’d say. “Or Avengers. Or every single movie ever, where all they have to do is touch their ear to hear each other.” 

But Dean isn’t here, so Cas is left holding his ear alone. 

Although in this case, it’s not to look badass: it’s because he’s having enough trouble picking words out. 

Especially with Victor saying “You hear anything?” every ten seconds. 

“—Car is broken down,” Jo says. “I— need help.” 

A muffled answer, probably from the intercom, because all Cas can hear is static. 

They’re behind the part of the wall that’s in line with the kitchen. Kitchen that Jo can hopefully get to. Charlie’s getting the security cameras to play footage from last night— so if anyone’s watching, the area is empty, but Cas is still debating shooting the lens that’s giving them the eye. Just for his peace of mind. 

“Evening, pretty lady.” Not an intercom this time, then, since the voice is clear. “Get yourself on in here.” 

“I just need to make a call,” Jo says. 

“Phone’s inside.” 

The wire is picking up some of Jo’s breathing, and it’s admirably steady. 

Cas shakes his head as Victor opens his mouth again. “She’s almost in,” he whispers. 

“It takes three men to escort me to the phone? This is some tight security here.” 

Three. Cas lifts the same number of fingers. 

A laugh. “The guys here are just lookin’ for a distraction. You’re the most interesting thing to happen all night. Boris, you stay here.”

Crunching of gravel. 

“One is staying by the front gate,” Cas whispers. “Boris.” 

“Ugh. I know that one,” Gordon says. He’s crouching with the others next to the wall, but there’s more energy in his pose: given any provocation, Cas is sure he’d be up faster than the rest of them. “Big white guy, hair like—” he gestures, presumably to show big hair. “It’s kinda gross.” 

“Your house is beautiful,” Jo is saying. Then— “Wow. This is… this kitchen is amazing.” 

“Kitchen,” Cas repeats. 

“Edgar, why don’t you go… check on things.” There’s a shuffling. And Cas doesn’t catch the next few words— they’re whispered with enough breath to fuzz out the connection— but then it’s only breathing. And a quiet thud. 

Cas stands on tip-toe, peeks over the top.

There’s the kitchen window that they’ve been eyeing, and there’s— Jo spins the guy around so that her back is to it. 

“She’s good,” Benny whispers. 

They can just barely see her arm, reaching around behind her, and then up, undoing the latch in what appears to be innocent fumbling, and then it’s back on the guy and even though she knows what she’s doing, even though Cas knows that she can handle it, he still feels the need to go yank the guy away from her. 

But they have a plan. 

And a mission. 

_Dean._

“Shouldn’t we… take this somewhere else?” Jo says. 

“It’s unlocked,” Cas translates. “Boris is out front, maybe Edgar too— Sam, Victor?” 

Sam raises his shotgun, beaming far too brightly for a fourteen-year-old boy about to cause some serious bodily harm. 

They slip off around one side of the wall. 

“Alright,” Benny says. “So, Jo’s got Brady, Boris is out front, Edgar is unaccounted for, and the ginger and the brown haired chick may or may not be inside.” 

“And Roman,” Gordon adds. 

Castiel nods. 

“Okay then.” Benny rolls up onto his toes, poised to jump. “Yippie-ki-yay, motherfuckers.”

 

V.  
Can they find Cas? Can they really do that? They wouldn’t risk it, right, if they found out who he is? Carver Edlund’s real identity is kind of an open secret, and it’s not like he’s Suzanne Collins or whoever the big people are these days, but still, if they did that to Cas, if they brought him somewhere and killed him in front of witnesses, it would get out. It would get out, _author’s son brutally murdered_ , and Roman would be over. 

And so Dean is going to stay quiet, he’s going to pray (pray, because that’s how far he’s sunk) that Cas is getting out of town, that he can hide out and then go to college out of state, it’s only three months, only another three months, and he can do that and maybe he’ll be smart and go to that college in Illinois or something, and he tells himself this but it doesn’t help because when he closes his eyes, when he half drifts off to sleep, it’s always Alastair. But this time he’s holding down Cas, covering him with slimy hands, and Dean jolts awake before it can go even farther. 

(And then there’s Sammy, and what is he doing, and what if he starts up smack again what if he never stopped and he doesn’t have any money now and— and how is he going to—) 

He’s stuck in these thoughts when the door bangs open. A couple stumbles in, tangled in each other, grunts and groans and _what the hell is this._

“You like to watch?” the male half of the couple grunts at Dean, and tugs the girl towards the bed, but then she turns them around and pushes him down onto the floor and—

 _Jo?_

She looks up, glances at Dean, then shoves the guy's shoulder and _what the hell is she wearing?_ He’s so confused by this turn of events, and maybe he’s just hallucinating, but then Jo’s hand is curling around the back of the guy’s neck and she’s really going to town on his mouth as he twitches for a few moments and then goes still. 

“That was unexpectedly fortunate,” she says.

Dean’s pretty sure his mouth is hanging open. “What the _hell_ is—” 

“I’m here to rescue you,” Jo hisses. 

“How— what— how—” 

There’s a crash from downstairs. 

“That’d be the backup.” She looks around, and then pulls up her skirt, yanks out a knife— whatthehell— and starts jabbing at the handcuffs. 

“Um.” Dean’s still stuck on— “What—”

“Cas, Victor, Gordon and Benny are downstairs,” she says. ( _Casnodon’tlethtemcatchyou_ ) “We gotta— this handcuff thing seemed easier when I watched the YouTube video.” A brief pause, and then she’s diving forward, plugging in the soldering iron. 

“Brady? You in there?” a knock on the door, and Jo drops the iron, jumps on top of Brady again, hiding his lack of mobility— the door is flung open. “We got a si— _Brady!_ ” 

He grabs Jo’s shoulder, and she twists, kicking his feet out from under him and then her knife is in his face. Hand covering his mouth. They stare at each other for a second, and then all his muscles tense and he’s raising his hands and she stabs him in the groin. 

Dean flinches in reluctant sympathy. “You are terrifying.”

“I learned from the best.” 

The guy is screaming and then Jo is rolling off of him, grabbing the soldering iron which has started to make the carpet smoke, and is melting through the chain on the handcuffs and the guy screams louder and there’s more motion from the other room and then in the doorway—

“Hello, Dean.” 

Shouldn’t be here, he shouldn’t be here, and Dean shouldn’t be relieved, shouldn’t grin. “Hey.” 

There’s a give as Jo finishes melting the chain, but before Dean can stand up, there’s a gunshot and “Did you bring me a weapon?” and Cas offers him the hilt of his knife. Dean frowns. “Really?” 

Jo rolls her eyes. “What were you expecting, the sword of—”

Gunfire. 

“In the kitchen,” Cas says. Turns and runs. Dean follows, tries to follow, because at least they haven’t fucked with his legs. 

The kitchen is chaos. 

Benny and Edgar are fighting over a gun, bullets flying in random directions. Benny turns around and grabs the other man’s hair, twisting his neck and arm at the same time. And then Gordon is running in, and he’s got a gun and he’s blasting Edgar’s brains out, and Dean doesn’t have time to react to that because Casey and Roman are unaccounted for, and Cas pushes him towards the window with an order to run. 

But it seems Brady has recovered from unconsciousness, because he’s in the doorway now. And it’s a nice kitchen, large enough to manage a dinner party, perhaps, but not made for large fights to the death. Brady moves without stopping, shoving Jo onto the counter, and her head bounces off one of the cabinets but her knife is out and she’s stabbing him in the shoulder, his other hand moves towards her neck and Dean finally remembers to be moving and he lunges forward to help and Cas has disappeared—

Disappeared, fighting Casey, and as Dean turns to block one of Brady’s fists, they make eye contact. 

“This the guy you’d die to protect, Dean?” she asks, twisting the gun out of Cas’s hand as he head-butts her, shoving her backwards, and then Jo is leaping forward off the counter, locking her legs around Casey’s neck in what would have been a fantastic Black Widow move if it didn’t send them both into the ground, and Cas shoots her in the knee and she yells, and “Kill her, Angel!” 

Victor is leaning through the window, “If they’ve seen our faces, kill them,” and Cas hesitates, and Casey groans a bit. 

“ _This_ is the one?” She asks Dean again, and then Victor’s bullet goes through the open window and hits her in the head and she goes still and Brady is leaping out the window after Victor and—

“Well now.” 

They don’t give Dick the time for his dramatic entrance, because Jo is throwing her knife and he leans out of the way, it ruffles his hair as it goes by, and Gordon is screaming “ROMAN!” and charging him, he’s lost his gun somewhere in the chaos but he’s got a kitchen knife and he shoves Dick backwards and Dick raises his gun and there’s a bullet in Gordon’s head and he’s hitting the ground and not moving and just like that Gordon is dead. 

Dick looks at Cas, and Cas freezes, and Dick smiles. Lowers his weapon. “So nice of you to come by,” he says, and then Cas is shoving Dean behind him and running, no weapons or anything, and _Casno_ Dean goes after him. 

And Dick raises his gun again and he’s going to shoot Cas and he’s going to— but then it’s blown out of his hand, and _what_ , and a shotgun shell explodes on the wall, and Dick curses, and there’s Sam, Sammysamsam, and he’s clutching what looks like one of Bobby’s rifles, and Dick glances at him but then Cas’s hands are in his hair and Dean knows, because Dean always knows, with Cas, and Dick’s head is yanked back and Dean is shoving the knife-sword through it and blood squirts and Sam yelps and then Victor is behind Sam, dragging him into the kitchen as well. 

“There’s massive reinforcements, they’ll be through the gate soon,” he yells. “We gotta move!” and then he sees Gordon, and freezes for a second, and then repeats, “We gotta move!” 

Cas lets Dick’s body fall. 

“One second!” Jo yells, and they turn, and she’s lighting all the burners on the stove, opening the oven and grabs a hoard of cookbooks from one shelf. Dean wonders how odd it is that someone like Roman has— had— cookbooks, and his hand and arms are covered in blood, and Jo throws _Gourmet Chef_ onto the stove, and “Help me!” she snaps. “The body, c’mon!” 

“What?!”

But Cas seems to get her, because he’s rolling it forward, “evidence,” he’s saying, how can they even think right now, how can they anything, and when it’s close enough Jo is flinging one of the burning books onto the dead man’s chest, where it catches in his suit, and shouting at Sam and Victor to move, and they do, before she sends another one into the living room where it grabs onto the carpet and wood floors and—

“Go, go, go,” Benny says, half shoving Sam and Victor towards the window. And then they go, and then Jo is scrambling through and Dean hesitates, because the front door is being broken down, and Cas grabs his shoulder and yanks him forward and then he’s out the window too and hitting grass, and air, and his body is all locking up and he can’t move as fast as he’d like to because everything is sore but the adrenaline is roaring now, and Cas’s fingers are digging into his shoulder, and he can see fire in the upstairs window because the soldering iron probably lit the carpet and the carpet lit the bed. And he tries to tell Cas to run, because he knows Cas can go faster than this, can see Jo’s blonde head as she swings over the wall, and that means Sam, Sammy, _Sam_ is safe and what was he doing and he realizes he’s still holding the knife but there’s nothing he can do about it now because Cas pushes him forward, half shoves him up. 

Grabbing the wall hurts, but he sort of falls on the other side, last seeing Cas with guns up, watching the house. The fire is rising now, eating the self-help books and the spindly wooden tables and melting wires, causing more sparks, and then Benny is next to him, and then Cas, and they’re following the other three. 

“Where—” Dean presses a hand to his side, because it’s bleeding, one of his interrogation cuts reopening and he tries to keep his DNA from spreading. “Where are we—”

“Car, around the corner.”

“You do the license plate trick again?” 

“Course.” And there’s Castiel’s disgusting old Subaru, already running, Jo at the wheel, Sammy in shotgun, Sammy literally with shotgun, and they don’t all fit in the back but they fall all over each other anyway. And then Jo’s hitting the gas and there’s so much blood—

“Where—” Dean gasps. “What—”

And Cas turns to look at him, from where he’s half sprawled across Victor and Benny. “Are you okay?” 

“Am _I—_ Gordon’s—”

“Beyond help,” Castiel snaps, and his voice is cool and burning at once. “Are you—”

“I’m— I’m fine.” He still doesn’t have a shirt, and his chest is burning, but he’s alive, he’s alive, and Sam turns around, reaches over the seatback. Normally Dean would tell him not to be such a wus, but he reaches out instead, grabs his brother’s hand. “Are you okay, Sammy?” 

He nods. 

And then is promptly thrown into the window as Jo yanks the car around, and Cas says something disparaging about her driving and she says that it’s not her fault she got here first. 

“I’m not good at car chases,” she snaps, pulling onto the highway and changing lanes. 

“Is this a car chase?” Victor winces when he tries to turn. “Did someone go after us?” 

“Probably. If they could see through the smoke.” 

Jo takes the first exit, keeps going forward, and then jerks the car onto the next on-ramp. They get a horn, but no car pulls the same thing. 

“I think we’re good,” Benny says. But he doesn’t relax. 

“Gordon—” Dean says again. 

“Don’t.” 

“I—”

Benny turns to glare at him, and Cas’s hand digs into his knee. “ _Don’t_ ,” Benny says again. “Please.” 

Dean doesn’t. 

“How did you— how did you—” 

“Dean.” Jo glares at him in the rearview mirror. “I can’t drive this thing and think at the same time. We can talk at Cas’s.” 

“We’re going— we are _not_ going to— if they figure it out—”

“We’re having a party, and anyone shows up, they’re breaking and entering and we call the police and we have guns and where else could we go?” From his position as the lap blanket, Cas has to look up at Dean. But there’s so much blood on his trench coat— 

Dean looks down at the knife in his hand. “You want this back?” 

“Shut _up._ ” Jo pulls the highway trick again, one exit before she gets off for real. Everything is darker, quieter once they leave the main avenues, dark shape of Volunteer Park and he church offering no comfort. 

They stop in front of the familiar house. 

The door is unlocked. 

“Should the door be unlocked?” Dean asks as they shuffle inside.

“Yes,” Cas says. 

“Why—” Cas gives him that stare, and Dean gets it, and then he can’t breathe and _Cas thought he might not get out_ — “What the _hell?!”_

“Don’t.” Dean can’t read Castiel’s face anymore. “Let’s not do this now, okay? I’ll— everyone sit down— _not_ on the sofa, I don’t need to explain stains— figure out where you’re bleeding. I’ll get the stuff.” 

He’s limping a little when he goes, but nobody comments on it. 

They just sit in a circle on the wood floor (wood, like Dick’s burning—) and stare at each other. 

“Nice shot, Sammy,” Dean says after a second. His brother turns to look at him, eyes wide. 

“You’re not mad?” 

(The sound of the bath tub turning on.) 

“We’re having words later, yeah.” 

“In our defense, we tried not to let him come,” Jo says. “He was… thorough in his thwarting of our attempts to thwart his plan.” And then she’s sighing, and rubbing her forehead. “I…” 

Cas comes back, sans trench coat. Just a black t-shirt, black jeans. “Who’s hurt?” Pause. “Who isn’t hurt?” Pause. “Who’s about to bleed out?” 

“Benny,” Victor says. 

“No, I’m—” 

“He got grazed by a bullet.” 

Cas nods, and kneels. Ripping out bandages. “Trust me to sew you up?” 

Benny looks at Dean, who shrugs. “Cas is a battlefield medic,” he says, trying not to think about Cas bandaging him in the bathroom, so close that Dean could barely breathe— but that’s over now, because Dean fucked it up. _We fucked._ And then he remembers what Dick had said they would do to him, and he tries to care that he put a knife through his neck, and maybe he will later. Because he _killed_ someone and all he can do right now is— 

“ _Fuck._ ” Benny grits his teeth. 

“I’d offer you ibuprofen, but…” Castiel trails off. 

“We get it,” Jo snaps. Leans over and grabs the iodine. Starts poking at a cut on her leg with a swab. 

Benny swears a few more times. “How much experience do you have with this, again?” 

Cas’s concentration doesn’t falter. “I’ve done it twice.” 

“How comforting.” 

“Dean,” Sam says, quietly. “Dean do you need Cas to—” 

“I’m fine,” he says. Harsher than he meant, but Cas turns anyway. Looks at him once, and Dean still can’t read his face.

He wonders when he lost that ability. 

Everything is hurting again, as the adrenaline wears off, and he’s also becoming more and more aware that he smells like urine. With a mumbled apology, he heads to the bathroom. Doesn’t have the energy for a full shower, and the idea of water being shot at his burns makes him cringe. He settles for sponging off his legs. 

Doesn’t think about Cas in this room, talking about— what had they talked about? 

He doesn’t remember. 

It’s a small bathroom. Smaller than Roman’s, smaller than Ellen’s. A toilet, a sink. A tub that’s full of cold water, Castiel’s trench coat floating on top of it. For the bloodstains, Dean realizes: there’s a bar of soap at the bottom. It looks dead. It looks broken. 

He turns away, and is faced instead with the mirror. 

The mirror is reflecting a different face, a different body. He’s always bruised, but— well, he doesn’t think the design Casey drew on his chest is ever going to go away. It’s some weird star thing, inside a sun— she was very deliberate in her insanity. 

The reflection doesn’t tell him anything he doesn’t already know. So he turns yet again and stick his head out the door. “Cas, mind if I borrow some pants?”

Cas’s hand goes still for a moment, and he’s moved on to Victor now. But then he shakes his head. “Help yourself.” 

“Can I have some pants, too?” Jo asks. “And a shit. And. Stuff.” Pause. “Now I’m _really_ not going to be able to convince my mom we weren’t—” 

Dean winces at the mental image. Shouldn’t bother him. Shouldn’t at all, even if he knows that Cas isn’t only into guys and Cas is a good looking guy and Jo’s just joking around. Still, she looks vaguely amused at his expression when she joins him at the dresser. 

“And here I worried that I wouldn’t be able to get you two off each other.” 

“What are you talking about?”

She winces when she peels her dress off, revealing a black and purple torso. “Cas—” but then she stops. Selects an ‘I’m with stupid’ shirt from the drawer and pulls it on. 

“How’d you… how did you…” 

“Find you? Don’t put a shirt on yet—” Dean had not been planning on it— “Charlie hacked some security cameras. Cas is smaller than you, I’d go with sweatpants.” 

By the time they return to the main room, Castiel is liberally applying Band-Aids to a cut on his side, while Benny and Victor observe. 

“I’ll start a fire later,” Cas says. “Burn the bloody clothes. Unless you’re super attached, in which case, throw it in the bathtub.” 

“Really?” Jo asks, lowering herself very carefully back to the floor. “ _Really_?” 

“Well, what do you prop—”

“I mean about the Band-Aids.” 

“We’re running low on bandage, and we should save some for Dean.” 

Hey. “I don’t—”

Cas glares at him, and the next thing Dean knows he’s having copious amounts of burn cream spread across his chest. 

“Dude.” Victor picks it up. “There’s like, a vat of this. Does your house come with a high burn rate?” 

“Sometimes.” 

“What did they want from you, Dean?” Benny asks. “I’m assuming it wasn’t for comic relief.” 

It takes him a second to decide— but they’re after Cas, and Cas needs to know. “They wanted the Angel.” But Cas doesn’t react. 

“What’d you tell them?” 

“Nothing.” That, at least, he did right. He might have betrayed Cas in all the ways that mattered, but at least he’s safe. Sort of. 

“That’s rude,” Victor says, leaning back against the wall. “I’ve been roughing up gangs for ages and then—” 

“Shoulda stolen Dick’s sword. And that wasn’t as sexual as it sounded.” The cool cream feels nice against his skin. Cas’s eyes feel nice focused on his stomach. Cas’s hands feel nice working their way down, so it’s almost disappointing when he finishes. “Said that it was fun for a while, but then after you guys shot Edgar it was time to kill the Mockingjay, or something.” 

Cas doesn’t wait for silence to fall again. “Beer?” 

He gets a resounding affirmation, and “Just _this once_ ,” Dean tells Sam. “Got that?” 

“Got it,” Sam says. 

Cas returns with the cans. There is much popping and fizzing, and then Jo holds hers up. “To Gordon.” 

They all echo the sentiment. 

“You know…” Benny says, around the time he opens his second. “Gordon… he only went in there to kill Roman. No ‘ffence, brother. But that was his… that was his goal.” 

It’s probably bad that Dean isn’t surprised. But then, he’s realistic. 

“Just charged him,” Victor mutters. “I wonder—” and then he stops. “We don’t speak of this again, you hear? Not to each other, not to our friends, or families, not _ever._ This didn’t happen. All those different groups sent their best in, with any luck they’re fighting it out around Roman’s house right now and the cops will think he was killed by some of them. Everything is normal. We hang out at the Roadhouse, Cas goes to school—” 

“Um—”

“When you’re not suspended, anyway—”

Dean turns. “You’re suspend—” and then he remembers the video, and Cas, and he shuts his mouth. 

“And if you see Crowley, you don’t even look at him sideways.” 

Wait. 

What. 

“Crowley?” 

“We’re pretty sure Crowley is the one who gave you up— he couldn’t rat out the Angel without getting in some serious trouble, but he could give them you.” 

For a guy Dean’s never met, he has an admirable ability to cause massive problems. “And how did he know—” 

“He was in the office,” Cas says. His voice is closed, but there’s— Dean doesn’t want to know what that look means. So he focuses on his beer, and Victor’s words.

“We were just crashing at Cas’s because he told us his parents were out of town.” 

Jo snorts a little bit. “Forget revenge. If my mom finds out I had a slumber party with you guys, it’s _her_ you should be afraid of.” 

They all laugh a little bit. Jo starts pulling the pins out of her hair, and attacking the tangles with a brush. “On that note, what are the sleeping arrangements, Cassie?” (Are any of them going to sleep tonight?) 

“Don’t call me that. Um…” Cas glances around. “We could probably fit two in my parents’ bed, that’s a king, Anna has a queen so two people could probably fit on that, then there’s my bed and the sofa.” 

Everyone looks at everyone else for a minute. 

Since no one seems to object, Dean helps himself to a second beer. Because he has a feeling he should do some talking tonight, and that’s easier when he’s not sober. And he isn’t sure his stomach could handle anything more solid. 

“I’ll take the parents’ room,” Benny says. “Makes me feel the least like a creep.” 

“I’m with you there.” Victor raises two fingers, and swallows the last of his can. Cas tells them to make sure they don’t bleed on the sheets. 

“I’ll go in Anna’s,” Jo says, “but I’ll treat it as extreme patriarchal oppression.” 

“She has memory foam,” Cas says. 

“Sold.” 

Sam is looking from Cas to Dean with an expression that Dean does not find comforting. “I’ll probably fit best on the couch.” 

( _Cas on top of him, arching up and—_ ) 

Cas’s look of alarm probably mirrors Dean’s own, and, “I’ll take the couch,” Cas says. After developing a keen interest in the wall. 

“Yeah, Sam should take Anna’s bed.” When did _Jo_ learn about the couch? “I’ll sleep on the floor inste—”

“Oh my God,” Sam says, sitting up. He points from Cas to Dean and back again. “You— you didn’t— you— on the—” 

Cas meets Dean’s eyes, and there’s— there’s a sadness, maybe, maybe a regret, but there’s also mirth buried somewhere behind all the blue. 

“I’m scarred. For life.” Sam flings his hand dramatically over his forehead. And then realizes he’s been leaning against the back of the couch. And he makes a show of diving forward. 

“Okay,” Victor says. “What did I— are you—” he starts pointing again, and Dean is really not liking this whole ‘being pointed at’ thing. 

“I can’t touch this couch,” Sam says. “I have to get away from this couch. What are you going to do when your parents come home and want to watch TV or something?” 

Cas glares at him. “You know how much sex Anna has had in the bed you’re about to sleep in?”

“Anna’s not my brother!” 

“Okay.” Dean leans forward and pulls the can out of Sam’s hand. “I think someone’s getting cut off.”

Sam crosses his arms and glares. Dean crosses his arms and glares back, and it’s almost normal, until the motion tugs on one of the bandages and flinches and that just reminds him of all the things that hurt right now. 

Benny snickers for a few moments before standing. “Loathe as I am to admit it,” he says, “those eleven-pm-lights-out orders have put me on a rather weak sleep schedule. I’m off.”

“Wait for me!” Victor grabs Benny’s hand, and uses it to pull himself to his feet. “Come to bed, dearest?” 

Benny presses his hand to his heart. “But Vicky! This is all so sudden!” 

The laugh slips out before Dean can stop it. His brother hides his face in his hands. “You people are ridiculous.”

“Well, you don’t want Cas’n Dean to be the only ones who’ve gotten some in this hou—”

The sound Sam makes brings to mind the image of a tortured cat. Victor and Benny drop hands, assure each other that no homo was meant, and try three wrong doors before finding Chuck and Amelia’s bedroom. 

Which is somewhat impressive, since there are only four doors in the house. 

“Can I have the alcohol back, now?” Sam asks, trying a somewhat tipsy puppy-face. 

“No.” 

“Please?” 

“No.” Dean downs the rest of Sam’s beer in two gulps. “That was for outing us to Victor, you asshole. And for running towards Dick Roman with a shotgun.” 

The puppy face melts into one of utter devastation. “I thought you said I did good.” 

Dean looks to Cas and Jo for help, but they’re both staring off into space, lost in whatever worlds. “You did do good. Doesn’t mean we aren’t talking about this later, though. You gotta keep yourself safe.” But they can’t have this conversation now, not with Cas and Jo there, and not when the blood hasn’t even dried. It’s going on one in the morning, and just a couple hours ago he was waiting to die, and he can’t say he’s not grateful but he hates that he has to be. 

Hates that he’s glad that if someone had to die, it was Gordon, because the idea of losing Benny or Jo or Cas or Sammy is too painful to contemplate. 

“We should all turn in,” Jo says. “Gotta clear out of here early tomorrow, probably.” 

“I can sleep on the floor,” says Sam. “You can have the bed.” 

“Nope.” She shakes her head a few times. “She’s got a nice carpet in there. I’ll be fine. No arguments. I’m going there now, and I’m going to fall asleep, and if you wake me up for anything other than an emergency, you will suffer.”

Dean is too keyed up for sleeping, he doesn't know how anyone else is planning on doing it, and he doesn’t feel entirely comfortable taking Castiel’s bed. But he hasn’t had a decent sleep in days, and Cas isn’t looking at him, and Sam is yawning. And so he gives his brother a hug (because who cares what it looks like, Cas isn’t going to care, and he thought he’d never be able to do that again.) 

He can’t hear them murmuring when he closes the door. It’s quiet. It’s quiet and peaceful and he killed someone. With the knife that’s in this house, and he hopes Cas put it somewhere safe because burning all the clothes and houses in the world won’t make a difference if it’s found. 

The bed doesn’t creak when Dean sits down on it, but welcomes him. He shoves the blankets down to the foot, but the sheets are cool against his back. He’s reaching up to adjust the pillow when he feels the envelopes.

 

VI.  
They don’t build fires very often. But that means that the logs, stacked neatly next to the fireplace, are old and dry. 

It still takes a good chunk of the phone book to get it really burning, though. 

Cas still hesitates, twisting Victor’s shirt between his fingers. He doesn’t know what cotton smells like when it burns— but the neighbors probably have their windows closed, and if they don’t, they’ll probably just assume Castiel and his hoodlum friends are doing some weird kind of drug. 

He tosses it in. 

The fire brightens, shirt hissing and burning and sparks are flying and how easy it is, to get rid of something. To light up Roman’s kitchen, Roman’s body— in wars they’d salt and burn the enemy’s land, to keep anything from growing there for generations… he isn’t sure how that thought is relevant to Roman’s death, but he thinks it anyway. 

“Cas?”

“Dean.” Cas doesn’t turn. Doesn’t know if he can. Just pokes the last few bits of the shirt into the fire, makes sure they all burn. 

“What are these?” 

This time, he looks. At the letters— that he’d left under his pillow—

Dean sits down next to him. “Cas?”

“Same reason I left the door unlocked,” Cas says. Because isn’t it obvious? “In case I died tonight.” He can see the names on the letters out of the corner of his eye. Dean is going through them— _Bobby & Ellen, Mom & Dad, Jody Mills—_

“Sam’s English teacher?” 

“Long story.” 

_Gabe & Balthazar, Dean._

Dean freezes on the last one. Stares for several minutes. “You… you prepared for—the door thing wasn’t just—you really—” 

“We could die any time we go out,” Cas says, trying to remember who said that yesterday. Shrugs. Because they didn’t die, and even though the proverbial shoe will literally crush them soon, they’re safe right now. “But— yeah, we knew the odds were higher than average tonight.” Jo’s dress isn’t cotton— it’s something shiny and stretchy, and will probably melt, not burn. He tosses it in anyway. 

The fire splutters. 

And sure enough, it disappears faster than the shirt. The smoke is darker. 

Dean is turning the envelope over in his hands. “Can I open it?” 

Maybe. Maybe then he’ll understand. “If you want. But if you read those, you might wish I _had_ died.” 

“What?!” 

(He’s had too many beers, and he doesn’t care what Dean’s face looks like. He isn’t going to look.) 

“I told my parents that my college fund should go to Sam.” 

Silence, except for the crackling fire. Cas pokes the dress a bit more, then adds a few more sticks and Benny’s jeans. But they’re thicker than anything so far, crushing some of the flames, and so he grabs the letter addressed to _Mom & Dad_ and tosses it in. Because he’s alive, and they don’t need it now. _Gabe & Balthazar_ goes in too, just for good measure. To let the flames spread again. 

It’s a couple more seconds before Dean speaks. “You think I’d be okay if you died, because Sam would have college money?” 

“Just figured you’d come out for the better either way.” Dean doesn’t say anything else, but Cas can hear the tear of the envelope as it opens. “I’m not— words aren’t my thing,” he adds just as a disclaimer. Because he was only able to get one sentence on the page, one sentence in case of death, the sentence that Dean is taking far too long to read. 

_Dean— if you’re reading this, it was worth it._

“Cas—” Dean’s voice is cracking. “Cas— why— why would you ever think—” and it’s on the tip of Cas’s tongue to say that Dean deserves to be saved, but it’s not about deserving, it’s about everything. That they only set fire to a kitchen, but Cas would have burned down half the city with no regrets as long as they got Dean somewhere safe. Would have burned down the world. But he knows Dean wouldn’t want to hear these things. 

When he finally turns to look him in the eye, his friend’s face is wide open and lost. And so Cas reaches out, fingers brushing over a bruise as he cups Dean’s cheek. 

“Do you really not know?” he whispers. 

Because he can say it to Balthazar, he can say it to Jo, but he can’t say it to Dean. Because if he does there won’t be a way to ignore— 

The fire hisses around the zipper, the button. They ignore it. 

Dean’s hand wraps around Cas’s wrist. Holding it there. 

“Roman said— he said if I told him where you were, he’d just kill you, but if— if they found you without me, the longer it took, the worse they’d—” the fingers are holding his arm tighter, and Cas can fill in the blanks, imagine the threats, _why are you telling me this,_ even though he’s sure his imagination doesn’t do them justice. “I almost broke, Cas, I—” 

“It’s okay,” Cas whispers. Leans forward and presses his lips against Dean’s forehead, before pulling away. Throws the rest of the clothes in the fire all at once, the rest of the letters, to make sure it keeps burning. Except for the one Dean’s still holding. “They only found you because of me, it’s—”

Dean’s hand is on his shoulder now, where Cas had held him earlier, and he’s tugging him around and then Dean’s lips are on his, for a couple brief seconds— “It’s okay,” Dean says. Then— “I don’t do words very well either.” And then he’s kissing Cas again, and he could get lost in it, the taste of crappy beer on Dean’s tongue and feel of his skin, warmed by the fire. And if this is the comfort that Dean needs, then Cas’ll give it, but he has to pull away for a second first. Rest his forehead against Dean’s and breathe, let them breathe the same air, he has to remind himself that— “I’m sorry.” 

“For what?” 

Dean’s laugh brushes against Cas’s chin. “For what I said. I didn’t mean it. I just— I panicked, but I didn’t mean it. I— Cas—” 

_Dean loves you._ They’d said it, but— “It’s okay. You don’t have to—”

“It’s _not_ okay.” It’s barely a whisper now, but it’s easy to understand. “I— Cas—” 

Castiel’s breath is shaking as it comes out. “Just tell me you know,” he says. “Please.” 

Dean’s smile is barely a flicker, but then he’s got his hands in Cas’s hair, climbing half on top of him to get at his mouth, tongue slipping around the inside. And Cas’s arms go around his back, thankfully clear of injuries, tries to be conscious of the burns even as he’s rocking his hips upwards because they’re alive, he’s alive, Dean’s alive, and Cas loves him, and he whispers that into Dean’s mouth. 

There’s no way he could have heard that, but Dean pulls him closer anyway. And Cas moves from Dean’s lips, tongues lightly at his jaw, his neck, and Dean’s head rolls to the side, mouth falling open. Because he likes this. Cas remembers that he likes this. Remembers—

“You have a bed,” Dean breathes. And it’s different, because they’re careful, moving so slowly. And Cas is afraid to break this _whatever_ , so he goes with him. Lets the last of the clothes burn bright in the fire, lets the firelight flicker over Dean’s face. Turn his skin, bruises, bandages a soft orange and Cas _wants._ Needs. Loves. 

“It’s your bed, tonight,” he says, just as quiet. 

Dean kisses him again. No tongues, just lips, slowly, carefully, and if anyone should be careful it’s Cas, Dean is hurt worse — but he presses back, just a little harder. 

“We can share.”

Cas smiles against Dean’s jaw. “I could do that.” 

But moving seems so difficult when they’re pressed up against each other, and he tries to be mindful of injuries when Dean is grinding slowly against his leg…

“The condoms are in Anna’s bathroom,” he whispers. “Do—” 

Dean takes a step back. “Is that a _question_?” 

“Well, you’re—” 

“Not-dead sex is the best sex.” Pause. Reconsider. “I mean— you know what I mean.” 

Cas nods a few times. He wants to ask if they can pretend those other two times didn’t happen, that they’re starting over, but he knows they can’t. So he can do the next best thing— which is to grab Dean’s hips, pull them forward. To let their erections grind together. To muffle the broken sound that comes out, and then make a decision. “Under the sink,” he says. “You get one.” 

“What are you gonna—” 

But Cas just lets him go, and walks towards his room. Getting progressively colder the farther he gets from the fire. But his bed is soft, his room is warm, and it’s so easy to sit down on it. Spread his legs. Dig the lube out from under the bed and slick his fingers. 

He’s done this before. Because with his parents gone so much, there is no chance of someone walking in, seeing him with fingers twisted up his ass. Seeing him fucking himself with the dildo he’d bought on Broadway. But now it’s just Dean, because the walls are thick and the other four should know to stay the hell out. And in goes the first finger— it’s been a bit since he’s done this, but it’s not unfamiliar. And he won’t, can’t let himself fantasize, as he slides in the second, no fantasy, no touching the prostate, because Dean’s in the doorway now. Eyes wide, mouth open. 

“Cas—” 

Cas lifts his hips a little. 

“Oh my god.” 

Dean shuts the door, and then he’s on him, gasping. Grinding. “God, Cas, are you— oh my _god._ ” 

Third finger. _Noprostatenoprostate._ Can’t come, can’t come, but it’s so hard not to when Dean is looking at him like this. “You get through safely?” 

“Yeah, Jo asked me what I was doing and if this was an emergency, I said you were in the other bathr—” but then he gives up, and starts tugging at his pants. “ _Jesus Christ._ ” 

“No, it’s Castiel.” 

“That wasn’t funny the first time.” But Dean kisses him anyway. “ _God,_ Cas.” 

“Mm.” Cas grabs Dean’s shoulder, because _burns, injuries,_ and pushes him onto his back. Lets him wait there for a moment, eyes wide, mouth wrecked. Lets himself appreciate his heartbeat, the gasps coming, before he shoves down Dean’s (Castiel’s) sweatpants. 

He strokes Dean once. Twice. Just to get that gasp.

He could make Dean Winchester fall apart under his hands. He could destroy him, just with a touch. He could use Dean to make himself forget about the Band-Aids up his side and dull throbbing by his heart. But he doesn’t.

“Condom?”

Dean offers it. 

A tear of foil, sticky fingers, more lube, and the Cas is rolling his hips up and sliding down. 

Dean is biting his teeth, and Castiel wants to know what sounds he’s keeping in— but they can’t. As tempting as it is to let them both lose control, to ride Dean until he’s screaming, he’d like to be able to look the others in the eye again. Also, they're both bruised and aching.

So he does the next best thing. Which is to lean down. Kiss him, tangling his fingers with Dean’s and pressing them into the mattress. Rock back and forth slowly, getting used to it— and then Dean pushes back, twisting his hips, and Cas is gasping, choking, because it’s never felt that way when he does it to himself, and there are stars and he’s shaking and he loves Dean—

“Gotcha,” Dean breathes. And does it again. And again, and it’s a few seconds before Cas can pull himself together enough to give back, to come down hard. To clench around Dean’s cock, because they’re not fighting, but they are, just a little bit. 

Dean licks his palm. Wraps it around Cas, and he throws his head back because it’s so _much._ So much everything. 

Later, when the burns have healed, he’ll drag it out. He’ll learn what spots on Dean’s body make what sounds. He’ll let Dean do the same to him. 

Maybe they’ll have time. 

But everything has consequences. What they did tonight will change everything. What they are doing right now will change everything. But when Castiel comes, all he thinks is _I love you._

And when he’s regained his breath, he says, “No matter what happens. It was worth it.” Then, a whisper: “ _You_ are worth it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Angels Have Fallen](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7lBIpp2JcLk)
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> So I've split this into a last chapter and an epilogue. I guess I won't finish by the end of July, but we're wrapping up. Whee.
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> (Also: I added this into the note a chapter or so ago, but for those who missed it: I'm on tumblr now at pepper-mint-wind and so you should say hi because I still do not understand that website.)


	12. Fight Fire with Fire

I.  
He isn’t hiding. 

Just because he’s sitting at the back of the library, face hidden behind _Lazarus Rising,_ that doesn’t mean he’s hiding. The fact that he’d been here the previous two days just means that he’s invested in the _Supernatural_ series, and is reading all the books. And the books happen to be in the library. 

That he’s not hiding in. 

Anyway, the books are interesting. A little overwritten, maybe, but it’s an odd sort of insight into Cas’s home life. The knowledge that some of these stories came from Amelia Novak’s delusions makes him feel as though he’s reading Cas’s history, makes them feel all that more real. 

And Dean can’t help but also wonder if Castiel used these books as the how-to on being a good son. 

If that was how he thought his parents wanted him to be. 

He’d said he was reading the books, but Cas hadn’t asked him any questions about it. There hadn’t been much to say, when he’d gone over so Cas could change his bandages: the design Casey had burned onto his chest is now puffy and white, but Cas had restocked his medicine cabinet, and the Tylenols and ibuprofens are doing a reasonable job at making the pain bearable. And it’s easier to forget about them, forget about everything, easier to get lost in the fantasy world. 

Also, the sofas here are comfortable. 

But he’s not hiding. 

The fact that this corner of the library is one of the last places any Levis or demons or whatever would look for him, that he’s less likely to be recognized than if he was walking around the street—

Maybe he’s a little bit hiding. 

Maybe he’s not sure how he feels about the fact that he drove a sword through a man’s neck. 

Maybe he feels better with Chuck Novak’s 1911 in his coat. 

It’s a large coat, and the weapon is easy to access but not visible— although Rufus had looked pretty suspicious when Dean was loitering at the garage, yesterday after the library closed. But Rufus has an uncanny ability to know things he shouldn’t know, but he also doesn’t share them easily, so Dean isn’t worried. 

He’s not worried just like he’s not really hiding. 

He put a sword through a man’s neck, but later he’ll go to Cas’s, and they’ll both pretend he’s only there for the burn ointment until one of them breaks and they kiss in the bathroom, the kitchen, wherever they happen to be. They’ll sit on the sofa and watch _The Avengers_ but he’ll end up with his dick in Castiel’s mouth, and there won’t be anyone around, no reason to be quiet. He put a sword through a man’s neck, but Cas can look at him, and they can press up against each other without even kissing or doing anything sexual. Just trying to inhabit one body, because they murdered someone, but they can get through it together. 

It’s twisted, how this is both the best and worst period of his life. 

But he’ll go pick up Sammy soon, and go with him back to the Roadhouse, where they’ll hang around just long enough to not arouse suspicion. Where they’ll make just the right amount of eye contact with Jo, with Victor and Benny, if they’re there. They’ll go to the Roadhouse every other day, than every third day, then once a week, then not at all, so that they’ll be harder to find. And if someone asks about Gordon, they’ll say they don’t know. 

They can’t mourn. They can’t have a funeral. They can’t acknowledge that he’s dead. 

It’s far less than Gordon deserved. 

But in a few months, when things have calmed down, they’ll bury the contents of his locker. Carve his name into a tree somewhere, so that everyone will know that Gordon Walker was here, even if they don’t know who he is. 

But none of them get what they deserve.

 

II.  
He’s still technically suspended, but the guidance counselor had told him to come by anyway. Turn in his completed work, pick up more blank work, and discuss the terms of his suspension and when he can come back. 

He wants to say that if anyone should be suspended, it’s Alastair, but he can’t say that. Although Balthazar had told him that more students are claiming he had gone weird on them in the past, and there may or may not be a mercy firing in the near future. 

It’s surprising how much he doesn’t care. 

Sitting in the hallway, on one of two waiting room chairs for all to see, all Cas can think is, _I killed someone._ He didn’t deal the blow himself, but he held Roman’s head, he was covered in Roman’s blood. Felt his last breath. 

The hands that are curling and uncurling uselessly in his lap _\killed someone_ , and somebody is going to know. 

He’d buried himself in homework the previous weekend, taking breaks to change Dean’s bandages, to kiss him and get off with him and anything so they didn’t’ have to think. The deeper he could get into calculus (or Dean, he thinks, and he’s amused despite himself,) the more he didn’t have to think— but now he’s left the house, and people are staring at him as they walk by (”Scared of,” “Think he’s crazy?” “No, Ralston’s a perv, you should have heard what he said to me one time…”) and Crowley and Meg both could put a couple pieces together, but he hasn’t heard anything, they can’t prove anything except that they can prove everything. The paper just said that there was gang violence and a fire, _police were suspicious of Roman’s involvement in…_ , and there’s been no mention of a group of teenagers but sometimes they don’t mention suspects, sometimes they—

“Castiel?” 

He digs his fingers into his stack of papers. “What do you want?” 

Ms. Naomi sits down next to him, frowning at one freshman who dramatically increases her speed. “This is all because of the Winchester, isn’t it?”

On Friday night, he helped kill a man, watched another man and a woman die, probably caused the death of a couple others and then helped set a house on fire. Then he sewed up wounds and made love to Dean Winchester. He is invincible. He is invincible. He is invincible. 

“No. I’m just turning in some work.” But he fixes her with his most terrifying glare. “And my life is none of your business.” 

Naomi glares back at him. “I’m looking out for you,” she says. “I know what they’re like.” 

“What.” He wants to snort. “Boys? You want to complain about boys with me?” 

Her glare doesn’t change. “Winchesters. I know what Winchesters are like. Mary Campbell was my friend— my best friend, in high school. We were the first two women on the rowing team, two of the first women in the school.” 

“Cool story,” Cas says, tasting Dean in his mouth. 

“Mary was funny. Beautiful. Smart. _Good._ She had the whole world ahead of her, Castiel, just like you did. But then, senior year, she met John Winchester. And he ruined her, with his looks and his charm and his car. He was all she could talk about, for weeks— they were one of those couples that everyone knew, everyone thought was oh so _perfect._ ” Here her lip is curling up in a sneer. “He said sweet things to her, and then he got her pregnant, Castiel. You know homeless youth, right? You know what that can do to a young life. And especially a young reputation. At such a prestigious Catholic school, one of their best students, just four years after they went coed?” 

There have been no pregnant students here that Cas can remember. He’s heard that it’s sort of an unspoken rule that if you get knocked up, they kick you out. He doesn’t know if they kick out the boy, too. 

“They didn’t expel her, but they— pressured her to leave,” Naomi says, presumably reading his mind. “Then John went with her, and they moved out of the city. She was _gone,_ which was better for her— but in those weeks before? The shame was mine, too, my parents forbid me from seeing her, they were angry that I hadn’t saved her from corruption, and then she left and then the shame was all mine, as though I had— as though I was the one who had—” 

“Liked a guy?” He’d killed someone. He’s hit bottom. There’s nothing stopping him now. “You’re so full of shit.” 

The halls are very quiet all of a sudden. Everyone is in class. The doors are all closed. 

“You think that’s Dean’s fault? You think the pregnancy wasn’t _both_ Mary and John’s fault? You think he was only lying, to get into her pants? You think that’s all Dean does? You think—” and then he remembers what she said about her parents, and it’s oh-so-easy to connect that to what Uriel beat into his face just a week ago. And he realizes in that moment why Naomi has never married, and he wonders how they missed it before. “Just how repressed _are_ you? Did you take Mary’s shame for her because you felt like you deserved it, because good Catholics shouldn’t want their best friends? Shouldn’t turn out lesbian?” 

She doesn’t deny it. 

“It was years ago,” he continues, because he’s invincible, he’s invincible. “You can’t just take all that out on her sons, you can’t pretend that this is anything like the same situation. Dean can’t exactly get me _pregnant._ You’re _pathetic._ For fuck’s sake, go out sometime, pick up girls, mourn Mary’s _tragic death_ , not her life.” 

“If you weren’t my student,” Naomi says, “I’d slap you. You have no right to speak to me like that. And if you weren’t suspended, I’d suspend you again.” 

He’s invincible, he’s invincible. 

“Do whatever you want.” He should get out of here. He should get out of here. He needs to stop talking, but he can’t. “But if you really think Dean is the one that set off all this—” Cas waves his hand at his paperwork, his seat outside the guidance office, “the one that Ralston—” he still can’t say it. “I. Am _not._ Ashamed of him. I am not ashamed of being his— his— I am _proud_ to know him. And I’m going to choose him, every time.”

She stares at him for a couple minutes longer. “Then we’re done here.” 

“I guess.” 

He is _so_ getting expelled. 

But fuck this. He should just get a GED.

 

III.  
Sam is waiting in Mrs. Mills’s room when Dean comes to get him: they’ve decided that’s safest, even though _I can take care of myself, Dean,_ because Dean has the gun now and Cas had said she knows a bit and probably wouldn’t mind Sam hanging around.

Her smile when Dean comes in is a little shocking, though. 

“What?” 

“I’m glad you’re okay,” is all she says. 

“Oh.” He looks at Sam, who shrugs. Has no idea what the response is for that, so he says, “thanks, me too,” and then realizes how selfish that sounds but it’s too late to take it back now. And she seems to understand, because she pats him on the arm and tells him to take care of himself. 

“He’s got Cas to do that for him,” Sam says, because he’s a little shit. 

“Is Amelia Richardson in any of your classes?” Dean asks, because he can be just as shitty. 

Mrs. Mills just laughs. “Why, you want me to give them detention together?” 

“Only so that he could go to Cas’s—” 

He will not swear in front of Sam’s English teacher. He will not swear in front of Sam’s English teacher. “You little fudge.”

Sam cackles as he runs out the door. There aren’t many kids out in the hall, but that just increases the likelihood that someone heard him, so he turns back to Mills. “I’m not—” 

But she’s just smiling at him. “It’s okay,” she says. “I sort of figured, you know, when Castiel came to talk to me.” 

He wants to ask what happened, wanted to ask what Cas said that made her think that, how obvious it is to everyone around them, but Sam is out there so he sort of nods and mumbles a goodbye. Goes after his wayward brother. 

“You need to stop doing that,” he says, once Mrs. Mills’s door is out of hearing range. 

“How come? You’re too chicken to tell anyone yourself, but you still want people to know.” 

Dean tries not to look intimidating at the kids they pass, and waits to speak again until they’re in an emptier hall. “Certain people,” he hisses. “Anyway, it’s not like we’re—” 

“Plowing? Sodomizing? Fornicating? In love? Having manly man sex when—” 

“You might be good with a shotgun, but don’t forget who’s armed right now,” Dean threatens. “Seriously. Don’t talk about that shit.” 

They hit the sidewalk. “But it makes you happy,” Sam says. 

Dean has to look away so his brother won’t see him smile. 

“And speaking of shotguns— are we going to talk about— you know—”

The smile disappears. “Not outside,” he hisses. He’s about to say next time they get a motel room, but he doesn’t have any source of income anymore— he’s almost persuaded Rufus to pay him to sweep the floor in the garage. Or maybe he can _actually_ find somewhere to hustle pool. 

“Okay.” 

Sam shuffles his feet, and Dean is tempted to tell him not to mess up his new shoes, but he doesn’t. 

It’s depressing how much easier Alastair had made his life, even as he made it that much more terrifying, that much closer to falling apart. How Alastair _did_ make it all fall apart, in the end. 

In the interests of saving money, they don’t take the bus: the walk is only about forty minutes, and Sam fills it with anxious chatter about Amelia and how much can he kick ass in wrestling without calling too much attention to himself, his grade in math, and everything but the fact that Dean just popped another painkiller and the fact that he watched Dean stab someone through the neck, probably saw Victor shoot some people in the head—

Deep breaths, deep breaths. 

But on his next deep breath, he smells smoke. 

It takes Sam a second longer to notice. “That’s not— that’s not near the Roadhouse, right?” 

Dean grabs Sam’s hand and drags him forward, and he can’t stop the feeling building in his stomach, and that’s when he hears the siren— not ten seconds later the truck roars past. There are a couple more parked out front, and then there’s the crowd of curious spectators—

No—

They run the last half a block. Stopping outside, where Cas had found Dean that night, that first night. 

“Stay back!” A fireman shouts, but Dean can’t, he can’t, because that’s the Roadhouse, that’s the closest he has to a home and it’s because of them that it’s burning. Because once again, his home is burning. 

“Ellen!” he manages. “Jo!” 

“Dean!” 

And there’s Jo, peeling away from the crowd, and she’s there and then Dean is hugging her, and she’s hugging him back, and Sam, and they breathe in smoke for a moment. 

“What’s going on?” Sam asks, voice shaking. “What happened?” 

“I don’t know. I— I went out for pretzels, for the snack for the Barista training graduation, I came back and it’s— it started so suddenly, surrounded the building, and my mom—”

So it is their fault, and he doesn’t have time to worry about Ellen because there she is, being dragged out kicking by two firefighters. 

“My kids are in there!” she’s yelling. “Go get _them_ let go—” 

“We’re trying, ma’am,” one. “But the stairs have collapsed, we have to be—” 

(Smoke, fire, crackling, hissing, melting of the sofa and excitement of the crowd.)

“Who’s inside?” Dean asks, desperately scanning the bystanders for Benny, for Victor, for Lisa and Ben and Tamara and Isaac. But not everyone is there all the time, it’s in the afternoon, nobody’s there this time of day, they could be anywhere, including inside— “Who was there when you left?” 

“Back up!” they’re ordered again, and it’s Sam who grabs Dean and Jo’s arms, pulls them away. 

And then there are more shouts, and a “Clear! Clear!” and a groaning, and it’s the roof, oh holy Christ, the roof is going down, almost in slow motion and Dean freezes and everything is cold and it's hotter than Hell and there's fire and the roof collapses, falling forward like its exhausted, like its relieved, and—

“Jo,” he says again, more urgent now. But she just shakes her head. And Ellen is yelling at one of the firemen again, and he’s shouting that “I have guys in there too, we’re doing our best, you need to step back,” and Ellen turns, sees Jo and runs to her, and then there’s another hug, and then she hugs Dean too and then Sam and “Bobby?” Dean asks, but “he wasn’t in today.” 

A few more breaths. 

Then, the inevitable. Sam picks up Dean’s earlier question. “Who’s inside?” 

Ellen looks at them.

IV.  
“—Very concerned, Mr. Novak. Your teachers have provided your work, and your character has been vouched for by several, but unfortunately there’s still going to have to be a review—”

Castiel’s phone rings. 

He glances at it once— it’s Jo, but he’ll call her back later. He clears his throat, and turns back to the counselor. “I can do the work,” he says, “as I’ve proven, and I don’t think—”

The phone starts ringing again. 

But she wouldn’t call twice in a row if it wasn’t an emergency, if there wasn’t something wrong, and he mutters an apology before answering. “Jo? I can’t really talk—”

“Cas.” And she’s’ hyperventilating. “Cas, the Roadhouse is on fire.” 

He jumps up, although there’s nothing he can do, not from here. “What? What do you — is it—”

“The roof fell in. They’re just— they’re just trying to contain it, now, Cas, it’s gone, it—”

“Dean?” And this isn’t a coincidence, they both know this isn’t a coincidence, and the guidance counselor frowns and Cas mutters “Emergency, it’s an— emergency.”

“Dean’s fine.” And then he can breathe, just a little bit. “Sam’s fine, too, they’re right here—”

“Put him on the phone.” 

She hesitates, and Cas can’t breathe, and this is their fault and he said he’d burn down half the city, and— “Cas—”

“Jo, put him on the phone. Please.” 

“I will in a minute, it’s just— the people inside—” and he hadn’t even wondered, once he learned that the people he cared about most were okay— “Cas, it’s Nancy and Victor.” 

Victor.

Victor who was cracking jokes just a couple days ago— “Are they— are they—”

“They pulled out the last firefighter, he has a broken arm, Cas, they’re not— they’re—”

They’re not trying, anymore. 

He can’t breathe. 

Victor couldn’t breathe either. 

And he hadn’t known Nancy Fitzgerald well, but she’d been nice, and shy, and they’d nodded hello at each other, but Victor was a part of their— 

And the Roadhouse—

“Cas. Cas are you there?” 

“I’m—” he takes a step back. “I’m— I’m— I have to—” 

“Do you still want to talk to Dean?” 

“I—” he looks around, and everything is normal, and the counselor looks concerned, now, and she’s opening her mouth, probably to ask what’s going on, but he can’t— he can’t— 

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah.” 

A pause, full of loud voices and the echoes of chaos. Then— “Cas?” 

“Dean.” Breathe in, breathe out. “You’re okay.” 

“I’m fine. I was— me and Sam were just coming back. I—” 

“I know,” he says. It’s their fault, it’s their fault. But it’s not Dean’s fault. “This is not on you.” 

More yelling, and there’s crying coming over the line, and Cas wants to throw up— 

“I should— I gotta go,” Dean says. “But— God, Cas, stay safe, okay? Do you want Jo back?” 

“It’s okay. I need to— I need to—” he fumbles with his papers, shoving them into his backpack. “I need to—”

“I’ll get in touch with you later, okay?” 

“Okay.” Please. _Please._ The line disconnects, and he’s kicking the door open, because who needs to graduate from high school, and his name is being called, he’s being told to wait, but he can’t, he can’t, because he has to go— somewhere— 

He stumbles down the hallway. Got to go, got to get— to the Roadhouse—there is no Roadhouse, it’s gone, it’s all gone, and he can’t— 

_Breathe._

Victor is dead. 

He shouldn’t be relieved that it isn’t Jo or Dean, but he is, but it’s still _Victor_ and they’ve been through so much and they’d known it wasn’t safe but— Victor—

Is dead. 

Castiel makes it to the back door. People probably stared at him through the classroom doors, but screw them, because he has to get out— he throws his entire weight on the bar, and it opens, and he’s barely two feet out the door before he’s being shoved into the wall. 

His first thought is that _they got me too they got me too they got me too no no no_ , but it’s not a Them, it’s Raphael, just Raphael, sayings something about leaving school early, something about being suspended and crazy and Mr. Ralston and his crazy girlfriend but Castiel can’t. Not right now. 

“Don’t touch me,” he spits. Because this is not the time. This is not the time. 

“Are you big and scary now?” Raphael asks. “You still have to pay for all those—”

Cas tries to shove past him, not caring about the list of wrongs, but then he’s pushed back and he loses it. He is invincible. He has to get— somewhere, he has to get out. And in one second he’s got Raphael shoved backwards, and it’s only been three days since he fought to the death, but he killed someone and he is invincible. He killed someone and it’s so easy to let his fists go flying, to punch and kick until Raphael is gaping at him, and then he doesn’t stop, because Uriel didn’t stop hitting him even though they’d been friends since preschool, because Dick Roman tortured Dean, because Victor is dead, because Victor is dead, because Victor. Is. Dead. 

It takes a moment for his vision to clear, to see Raphael battered and bruised on the ground, staring at him in disbelief. He’s cupping a split lip, and Cas considers tearing his face off, because he can’t hut Roman anymore, because Ralston is out of his reach but Raphael is _here,_ but then through the window he sees a few curious students, because it must be passing period, and at the front of the group is Crowley. 

Cas stares at him. 

He has blood on his hands, and he raises one of them. Crowley meets his eyes, for one, two seconds, and then turns and runs. 

And Castiel could go in and beat the holy shit out of him too, for daring to give up Dean, for causing all of this, for causing Gordon’s death, and now Victor is dead and maybe someone’s jumping Benny right now, maybe— maybe next it’ll be Sam, and then— and it’s Crowley’s fault, and Cas wants to kill him, too, but the Scot has vanished now, and he should get out of here before they have to call security on him again, and they would have found out who Dean was eventually. He knows that, but it doesn’t make anything better, because— 

“I’m sorry,” he says to Raphael. Who is still choking on blood. “I’m— I’m—” 

He runs. 

Into the parking lot, into his car, and he’s flooring the gas pedal, and Victor is dead, and Victor is dead, and Victor— is— dead— 

 

V.  
It’s around the fourth beer that he grabs the phone. The home phone, that Charlie and Dean called. He punches in the numbers automatically, fingers not slipping, because he knows them. They’re burned onto his soul, it seems like, and it’d take more than that to get rid of them. 

He hits voicemail. 

Of course he does. 

_Hey, it’s Chuck Novak. I can’t get to the phone right now, but leave me a message and I’ll be sure to call you back._

“Liar,” is the first thing Cas says. “You hardly ever call back. I don’t even know if you get my messages. You know— you know I’m suspended, right?” the word is harder to say than he remembers, and it will probably help if he sits. So he sits, because he has all his important conversations sitting on the floor these days. “I might have just gotten myself kicked out. So… so…” he frowns at his beer can. Huh. He thought he’d had four, but there are five empty ones, and he’s nearing the bottom of this one. “I drank all the beer. Did you think— did you think we wouldn’t? I was plannin’ on blaming Anna, but I guess it doesn’t matter. It’s just me…” It’s not just him, it used to be him and Balthazar and Gabriel and Uriel, but “Uriel beat the shit out of me last week. Anna chased him out of the house with one of your guns. Totally naked. Completely naked. He was freaking out, probably because of the nudity, but also because I’m in love with Dean Winchester.” That’s important information, isn’t it? It’s not like anyone is going to hear this. “Do you even know me? Do you know what I’ve been doing? We’ve been taking on gangs for… for…” it takes him several seconds to remember the rest of the quote. “Local charities.” That’s right. Local charities. But the giant lost to just one man, because it only took a few years for the man to pick up crazy-ass ninja skills. 

Castiel wonders if his life would be easier with crazy-ass ninja skills. If he could have just slipped in through the window and snuck Dean out. It’s so easy, in his mind, but in reality it’s all burnt to the ground. “But two of us are dead now,” he continues. And it occurs to him, maybe too late, that this voicemail could be used as evidence for something, but it’s too late to stop now. He’s letting loose, and his parents are going to have to deal with it. “Two of us are _dead._ They burned down the Roadhouse. I thought I could drink till I didn’t care, but I dunno if it’s working.” Just in case it might later, he pops open another one. “I might die soon too, I don’t know. They might get me. I don’t know… I don’t want to die.” He doesn’t know when he started crying He doesn’t remember the last time he cried. He didn’t cry when Dean disappeared, he didn’t cry when Uriel hit him, he didn’t cry when he ran out of the house and hid in a tree. But tears are coming fast, now. They hit his lips, and they taste like stale beer. “I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die— I love Dean, I don’t want—” _I don’t want to die._

_“You have reached the maximum amount of space for this message.”_

The phone hits the floor. 

Cas considers calling back, for a moment, then another moment because everything is swimming a bit. He wonders what would happen if he stood, but he isn’t sure he’s able to do that right now. He doesn’t know if he has anything left to say. It was tempting fate, burning the letter to his parents. It was tempting fate, thinking they were safe. He can see the letter in front of him for a second, and he imagines that the kitchen is on fire. He imagines the world on fire. He chugs his beer, because maybe that will put it out. 

_We’re gonna set the world on fire,_ isn’t that— that’s that song that everyone sang for like a month, _we’re gonna set the world on fire, we’re gonna set the world on fire, we’re gonna set the world on fire, we’re gonna set the world on fire…_

Maybe they did. Maybe the sparks spread, and maybe the world is burning. It feels like it is. It might as well. Because the Roadhouse burned and Victor is dead and Gordon is dead and Victor’s death must have been so, so painful, Cas has always been scared of dying in a fire, of his lungs full of smoke and not being able to breathe. Of fire melting his skin away, of screaming until he can’t scream anymore. 

He imagines for a second that he _is_ on fire, and he yells in sympathy with his vision, and then there was Nancy and he doesn’t have space to feel bad about Nancy, because he’s rotting from the inside out, he’s falling away and soon there will be nothing left. 

The beer will wash him clean, he tells himself, but he can still see the fire, fire in the fireplace with Dean, and he can feel Dean’s hands… 

He opens another can.

 

VI.  
He and Sam end up taking refuge at Rufus’s garage. 

It’s made of cement, and Rufus owns an alarming amount of guns, and Dean has a gun too now except he couldn’t shoot the fire. And they must look shell-shocked enough that Rufus doesn’t question them. Just lets them sit together on the bench and worry. 

Sam doesn’t ask what they’re going to do now. 

He knows better. 

Because Dean knows they can’t stay here. But he also knows they can’t leave. 

And so he thinks. 

Time passes, quickly, slowly, he doesn’t know, because just today Sammy was teasing him about Cas, and he still has Cas’s phone number in his pocket, written on a page of the Bible— right next to the note, the goodbye— 

_it was worth it._

But was it, though? 

Because Victor is dead. Nancy is dead. 

The Roadhouse is destroyed. 

Because of him. Because of all of them. 

_This isn’t on you,_ Cas had said, and maybe it’s on Cas, maybe it’s on all of them, maybe it’s just how the world turns, but Victor— and Nancy wasn’t involved in any of it, she— she was always too shy to talk to Dean, but she’d been—

“Hey, Dean?” Rufus taps him on the head. 

He looks up. 

His neck feels very old. It creaks. 

Gordon and Victor are dead. And he hasn’t seen Benny. 

“Yeah?” 

“I hear things,” Rufus says. “I know things. And right now I know you gotta skip town.” 

Cas. Benny. Jo. “I can’t.” 

“The hell you on—”

“I can’t.” He shakes his head, tightening his arm around Sammy. “I— I can’t leave—” 

“Look.” Rufus squats in front of him. “Now don’t mistake this for me liking you, but I do like you a bit. And I know that the best thing for you and your friends is to get the hell outta Dodge, or this stuff is gonna keep happening. And I got a Chevy Impala that’s now running.” 

Dean stares at him. “What—”

“The Impala, boy. The one you’ve been mooning over for the last god knows how long? Ring any bells?” 

All the bells, but that still doesn’t make sense. He has to look at one of the vintage movie posters that’s hanging on the wall, one for some movie that nobody but Rufus has ever heard of, or maybe Rufus hasn’t even heard of it and that’s why he got the poster, because it was cheap, to make the walls look cool— 

“I don’t have any money,” he says, “I can’t—”

“Well this ain’t me giving it to you,” Rufus snorts. “You think I’m that generous? But that kind of car is hard to sell, in this econ, and frankly I don’t want to sell it to some collector who’s gonna put it on a stand. She belongs on the road, boy, and so do you.” 

He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand anything. “So—” 

“So someone named Charlotte Huxley purchased that car on behalf of Dean Winchester. She ain’t associated with Roman, so I’m just gonna assume you scored some very generous friends and not ask any more questions.” 

“Oh,” Dean manages. Charlotte Huxley— Huxley and Bradbury— _oh._ O brave new world. He bites down on his lip, because he doesn’t know if he should be smiling or in mourning or what to feel right now because everything is so so derailed it’s in pieces on the ground and he just holds Sam tighter. “Okay.” 

“So I need you to sign some papers,” Rufus says, “and then she’s yours. You better take damn good care of her.” 

“I— I will.” 

“Good.” Rufus nods a few more times. And it’s a short exchange, because Rufus doesn’t do the small stuff, but Dean can’t leave. He can’t leave Cas. He touches the phone number, the note, _it was worth it._ And he considers asking if he can use Rufus’s phone, but he can’t, won’t, he’s asked enough. 

They sit on the bench. Watch the sun move across the narrow window. Rufus doesn’t seem to hold with things like multiple windows, just the one strategically placed so that he can keep an eye on the cars parked outside. His waiting room, such as it is, is a bench set perpendicular to a desk. Desk walling off the garage part, the tools and cars on blocks and the world Dean once thought he could work his way into. 

“Dean,” Sam says. “Dean, what about school?” 

Dean shakes his head. “I don’t know right now,” he says. “I don’t know.” 

The sun keeps on moving. 

They should move, too. 

Take the Impala and drive. He’d had that fantasy, once. 

Sam plants his face in his backpack. Sighs. 

“You can sleep,” Dean says, pulling Sam’s head into his lap. Rubs his shoulder a little, because Sam is alive, and he has to take care of Sam. 

He sighs, leans his head back against the wall. 

“Dean—”

“Go to sleep, Sam.” It’s barely six o’clock, but he’s so tired. Sam is so tired. They won’t sleep at the Roadhouse. Not tonight, not ever again. 

He doesn’t know how long it takes until Benny comes, sneaks through the door like he’s trying not to be noticed. Even though the bell rings. 

“Bobby thought you’d be here,” he says, Glances at Sam, who’s either asleep or pretending to be. 

Dean nods. “I’m glad you’re okay.” 

“I’m okay.” Benny squats in front of Dean. “I’m planning to stay okay.” 

“What does that mean?” 

“I’m—” Benny sighs. The entire world comes out in that breath. “Rufus tell you about the Impala yet?” 

“Yeah. Did you— know about that?” 

“Yeah. Charlie and I talked about it. When she was going through Roman’s stuff, she found some offshore bank accounts. Took a fraction of a percent off the top.”

Dean doesn’t quite know how he feels about that. But then his chest twinges, and he decides it’s fine. _Can’t take it with you._

“What are you asking me to do?” 

“She got us an out, Dean. We’d be idiots not to take it. Set up bank accounts— she’s got enough in yours to cover a fair bit of gas for that ridiculous car.” 

“Cas.” 

Another world-weary sign. “He’s in less danger than the rest of us, but it ain’t safe. Ellen’s already talking about moving to Nebraska, and she don’t even have the whole story.” 

Dean hasn’t heard that bit. “Nebraska?” 

“Family there, or something.”

 _But you’re my family,_ Dean thinks, but he doesn’t say that because his family is falling apart. All it took was the fire. 

_Some say the world will end in fire._

He swallows. 

“Where— where are you going?” 

“Back home, to Louisiana, maybe. It’s been a few years, I doubt I’ll run into anyone I don’ want to. Or somewhere else down South.” Benny cracks a smile. “Had enough’a you yanks.” 

Right. Right. 

Right. 

“I—”

“I’ll get in touch with you, brother.” A pause. “I’ll find a way. We can get emails, or something.” 

Or something. But everyone is telling Dean to go. But he can’t, not yet, but he can’t afford not to. 

He reaches out, and pulls Benny into a one-armed hug. “Keep your nose clean.” 

“You know me.” 

It’s very quiet after he leaves. 

Dean closes his eyes, and thinks. 

 

VII.  
He doesn’t know when he passed out. The world is in pieces when he first opens his eyes— he’s been turned over, onto his side, and someone is pulling his torso up into sort of a crouch. So he does what seems logical, and throws up. The vomit splatters his vision, over the linoleum floor, those neat neat squares now blurred by his insides. 

But someone is touching him, holding him, and they’re here, they’re here— “No—” _he doesn’t want to die hedoesn’twanttodie,_

But they’re not threatening, and he tries to turn, tries to see who is holding him upright, but the world is all stained glass and Photoshop filters. 

“Castiel?” 

Anna? Jo? 

“Hey. Honey.” A hand on his face, pieces of blonde. 

“Mom?” 

Nothing makes sense. Castiel considers the feeling for a few moments. The ceiling fan does not provide answers. The ceiling fan is not helpful. The ceiling fan is not on. It should be. It’s hot in here, the ceiling fan should be on, but the ceiling fan is not helpful. He looks back down to the floor. At least the floor isn’t moving. 

“What—”

And then there’s Chuck’s hand. Cas recognizes the lines and the wedding rings, the way it’s stuck on his hand, deep groves and history and love holding it in place. “We came back,” Chuck says. “Of course we came back. Drove non-stop from Portland…”

And Cas doesn’t know how long it’s been, but he’s pretty sure it’s at least three hours to Portland. He doesn’t remember. He doesn’t remember. He doesn’t understand— 

He throws up again 

Everything is fuzzy, everything hurts, and he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t. Understand. He’s surrounded by beer cans, and— “Sleepy,” he says, because the pieces are coming together, but he doesn’t like the puzzle. Doesn’t like the image. 

He does like his pillow, as he’s led to it. He shared this pillow with Dean. And there’s the angel-wing blanket, and a hand on his shoulder that means _we’re here for you, but we’re also having a serious talk later._ And there’s the blanket with wings, the one that Gabriel found in the closet months ago. And he collapses onto it. 

 

VIII.  
When he wakes up the next morning, tired and hung-over but not in danger of choking on his vomit, Dean and Sam are at the kitchen table.

“What—” 

“We came by last night, looking for you,” Sam says. “Your mom let us crash on the sofa.” The horror is evident on his face, but at least he doesn’t make any comment.

“Castiel, your father’s in the back yard. He wants to talk to you.” 

Right right. Dean reaches out, brushes Cas’s shoulder. And Cas would hug him, or kiss him, or something, if his mom wasn’t there— he settles for catching Dean’s fingers, holding them for a brief second before he traces his father’s steps out back. 

They sit on the bench, bench that’s so rarely used, hidden under a tree and yet also in direct sunlight. At least this time of day. It huts his eyes. The gravel crunches as Cas shuffles his feet. 

He hesitates for a few more seconds, before clasping his hands. 

Looking at the sky. 

It’s bright. It hurts. 

“Let me tell you my story,” he says, as though Chuck is going to do anything else. “Let me tell you everything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Fight Fire with Fire](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X-ze0oQ_b6c)


	13. {Epilogue} Carry On Wayward Son

He’s still sitting on the bench when Dean comes to him. 

He’s holding the blanket, bunched up in such a way that Cas wonders if there’s a surprise kitten or baby or something hidden in there. But Dean just sits down next to him, tosses the blanket around both their shoulders. Hides them in wings. 

“Hey,” he says. 

Cas nods. “Hey.” 

“Your mom is nice,” Dean says. “Considering.”

“Considering?” He thinks for a moment that Dean is referring to her mental problems, but that doesn’t make sense. 

“We’re complete strangers that showed up last night. And I think she blames me for your breakdown— Jesus, Cas. You could have— you could— I sat with you for a bit last night and you were—” 

“Sorry.” He tries to be more apologetic, but he’s sinking, collapsing in on himself. Leans into Dean, just a little bit. Trying to ignore the harsh sunlight, the world that’s still spinning. “I— didn’t take the news about Victor well.” 

“No kidding.” But Dean leans back. Propped up against each other, they stare down reality. 

They’re so small, compared to the world. 

“Go to that school in Kansas,” Dean says. “Or Illinois. You gotta get out of here. You gotta—” 

“I yelled at Naomi, ran out of my meeting with the guidance counselor, then beat the shit out of Raphael.” Cas closes his eyes. “How lame is that? Getting kicked out of school April of my senior year.” But maybe that’s just how he rolls. 

“They expel you? That official?” 

“Dunno. But, probly. My dad said— that the school called, just a bit before I did. Said that they were going to do a more ‘thorough investigation.’ I—” he feels around for Dean’s hand, and then holds it, because it might be pathetic but he’s afraid Dean is going to leave with the next sentence. “I had to tell him. About you and Ralston. He says that knowing that he thinks Ralston’s threats to press charges are just threats, and he thinks I was more than justified, but unfortunately you don’t really challenge people to duels anymore, so justification doesn’t really matter, and I’m so sorry, Dean, I’m—” 

“Hey.” Dean hesitates a second, and then squeezes the hand back. It’s under the blanket, it’s not like anyone can see. “It’s— it’s okay. I can— if it’ll get you off the hook, I can go to the police or—” 

“No. I’m not putting you through that. I’m— anyway, it doesn’t excuse what I did to Raphael. That wasn’t— validated, in any way.” 

“Your dad, your parents, are they—”

“I told him most of it, just now. I said that the fire and stuff just started from the soldering iron, that the deaths were at the pissing contest after, but I think he suspects— he—” 

Dean’s hand tightens around his. “Is he angry?” 

“They both are. But they— they— I don’t know. He writes novels about demon hunters, you know? I think he’s—” it takes a moment, to try and find the words. “He’s angry, and he’s upset, and my mom’s really scared now, they’re already talking about moving, which might not be a bad idea, but I think he’s also sort of— proud? Like I’m some righteous hero or something.” Chuck had never been the most mature of parents. He probably imagines Cas and Dean in some sort of _West Side Story_ or _Outsiders_ world. “Next thing you know, there’ll be an angel in his books with a small silver sword.” 

A laugh— Cas can feel it on Dean’s skin. “What’d you do with that? You still have it?” 

“Yeah. I’m gonna toss it, though. Was planning to get on a ferry, throw it overboard. People don’t scuba dive that deep in Puget Sound, right?”

“Hell if I know.” 

They’re quiet for a second. 

“I’ll go with you, though,” Dean says. “Drive you down. I have— a car now, apparently. Did you know about the car?” 

Cas did not know about the car, but it takes a moment to place the growing horror as Dean describes it. Because it was nice of Charlie, but that means— and then he realizes. “You’re leaving.” Is this a goodbye, did they come to say goodbye? 

Dean shrugs. “Everyone’s going,” he says. “Benny said that he’s taking off. Bobby’s gonna hang around with Rufus for a bit, but he’s thinking about going back to South Dakota, and I found Ellen last night. She was mad as hell about everything, but she said she’s moving them to Nebraska as soon as they can find a place to stay. Don’t think Jo told her the full story, but she’s still grounded until she’s thirty. Guess Ellen wasn’t so much with the righteous.” 

And if Dean’s leaving, he should tell him. He’s coming clean today, right? He’s— “I’m not righteous,” he says, as quietly as he can while still being heard. Because maybe the trees are listening, maybe the wind will carry his voice. “Dean, I— the stuff I’ve—” 

Another fragment of a laugh. “Look who you’re talking to.” 

“No. I’m—” one breath, and then. “Dean, the reason I was in the office with Crowley that day— I was— it was right after and I had just discovered about Ralston and I— I didn’t have anything, and I really needed— and he—” God, why can’t he say it? Why can’t he say it? “I sort of. Sucked him off.” 

Dean tenses, but he doesn’t let go. When he speaks, his voice is level. “Your idea or his?” 

“His.” 

Another pause. 

“Is it bad that I want to kill him for that more than I want to kill him for giving me up?” 

Well. That’s not as bad as Cas was expecting. “Are you angry?” 

“Yeah.” Dean swallows. “Not— I don’t have any right to be, though. I’ll get over it.” Pause. “I don’t know, I might have to leave a few hickeys in very visible places. You know. To make up for it. Or I could make you scream, just to be extra sure your attentions aren’t straying.” 

Cas snorts. “I don’t scream. And we both have the endurance of teenagers.” 

“Is that a challenge?” Pause. “I could get a dildo, tie you down, and then fuck you with it but avoid your prostate until you’re—” 

He’s too comfortable to shove Dean off the bench, so he settles for sort of shouldering him. _You can’t do that if you’re leaving._ But maybe Dean senses that, maybe Dean’s thinking the same thing, because he pulls the blanket tighter around them both. “You need to get out too, Cas. Get the college to accept you anyway, or get a GED, or—” 

“You don’t think it’d have died down by then? I wouldn’t be going for four months.”

Chuck is watching them through the window, but he looks away when Cas notices. Cas wonders if he looks as miserable as he feels, because Jo is gone and his blood brothers are gone and Benny and Dean are leaving, and… 

“I’ll go with you?” 

“I can’t ask that, Cas.” 

“You don’t have to.” But just because Dean promised dildos and a ride to the ferry, that doesn’t mean— “Unless— you don’t want—” 

“What? No— that’s not what I— of course I want you, I need you, I just— I don’t even know where we’re going, and you might be safe here a while longer. They don’t know where you live, who you are…” 

But Crowley knows, and he doesn’t want to give Crowley that type of power over him. Even if he has, even if he has for months. Even though if Crowley has any sense he should be hiding his ass. 

“I gave everything,” Castiel says, and it’s not a pity party, it’s a fact. “I don’t have anything left here, Dean. I’ll call Bradley, see if they’ll let me in anyway, with the circumstances, and if not we can— I can get a GED, or something, we could go to Nebraska and visit Jo, we could go look for your dad, if you want—” 

“—Crappy motels, crappy food, maybe being followed.” 

“You’re Dean Smith now, right? Charlie get you that ID? We can just get her to age me up a couple years, and we have the money she gave you,” stole, whatever, it’s like they just mugged Roman and took his wallet, “we can—” 

“You think we could really find my dad?”

Cas shrugs. But he’s already going through lists, options in his head. Newspaper reports, missing persons, most likely areas. “We could try.” 

Another moment of silence. They’re half in shade now. Cas wonders if time will ever exist for him again. Through the other window, Amelia and Sam are visible in the kitchen, and it’s towards them that Dean is looking when he says, “your parents would never let you go.” 

“They wouldn’t have much of a choice, would they?” They’re angry at him, sure, maybe even furious, but they don’t want him dead. “Anyway, I’m eighteen.”

“So, seven more years on their health insurance.”

“Shut up.” 

Sam seems to be charming Amelia’s socks off, judging by her smile and the number of peanut butter sandwiches she's making him. 

Cas will email Balthazar. Make new email accounts. Just to say he’s okay. And he can’t explain, but he can— he can try. He can say goodbye. “Do we leave today?” 

“No reason not to. I gotta— I can’t risk Sammy.” 

He has fallen. His life future has gone from planned to empty, a winding road of long nights, fast food, fighting over music, sneaking out to the Impala to be alone with Dean. Of trying to get Sam in school, of fighting over something and a tense silence covering the Impala for days. Of getting into bars with fake IDs, learning how to hustle. Of checking papers for John Does and John Winchesters, of looking for salvation in nooks and crannies. Of odd jobs and crappy apartments and trying to go to school. Trying to be something, even though he doesn’t even remember what he had once planned to major in. Of moments of crushing loneliness and small towns and day tripper friends. Of the open road, as a freedom and a terror, of Lebanon as a prison and a sanctuary. 

For one moment, he sees the future. And then he blinks, and it fades. Because the future has to be lived. 

He kisses Dean, because he can, because hell to his parents if they’re watching. Sucks on his lip for a moment before pulling away. Stands.

“Well, come on,” he says. Dean looks up at him. His face is still in the sunlight, and it glows. Castiel smiles. “We have work to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. 
> 
> Here we are. 
> 
> I hope you had as much fun reading this as I did writing it. (I'm not going to whine at you to leave a comment, but it'd still be awesome if you leave a comment.) Thanks as always to Marbles, my Seattle expert, and all the commenters an kudos-ers who encouraged me along the way. See you around. 
> 
> I hope I don't need to provide a song link for this chapter title. :P


End file.
